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i  The  Companion  Library. 


Number  17 


PERRY  MASON  &  COMPANY, 

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THE  COMPANION  LIBRARY 


Is  a  collection  of  stories,  travel-sketches  and  descriptive  articles,  complete, 
exact,  and  so  interesting  as  to  meet  the  need  of  all  who  want  "a  book 
for  the  leisure  hour."  It  is  made  up  from  the  works  of  some  of  the  best 
writers  for  The  Youth's  Companion. 

The  Library  comprises  the  following  volumes,  each  containing  sixty- 
four  pages,  illustrated  and  bound  uniform  with  this  book : 

No.  I.  A  Book  of  Stories:    Patriotism,  Bravery  and  Kindness. 
No.  2.  Glimpses  of  !Europe:    Travel  and  Description. 

No.  3.  The  American  Tropics:    Mexico  to  the  Equator. 
No.  4.  Sketches  of  the  Orient:    Scenes  in  Asia. 
No.  5.  Old  Ocean :    Winds,  Currents  and  Perils. 
No.  6.  l/ife  in  the  Sea:    Fish  and  Fishing. 

No.  7.  Bits  of  Bird  I/ife :    Habits,  Nests  and  Eggs. 

No.  8.  Our  I/ittle  Neighbors:   Insects,  Small  Animals. 
No.  9.  At  Home  in  the  Forest:    Wild  Animals. 

No.  10.  In  Alaska:    Animals  and  Resources. 

No.  II.  Among  the  Rockies :    Scenery  and  Travel. 

No.  12.  In  the  Southwest:  Semi-Tropical  Regions. 
No.  13.  On  the  Plains  :    Pioneers  and  Ranchmen. 

No.  14.  The  Great  I^ake  Country :    A  Land  of  Progress. 
No.  15.  On  the  Gulf:    Attractive  Regions  of  Contrasts. 
No.  16.  Along  the  Atlantic:    New  York  to  Georgia. 
No.  17.  In  New  ^England:   The  Home  of  the  Puritans. 

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PERRY  MASON  &  COMPANY,  Publishers, 
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IN  NEW  ENGLAND 


The  Companion  Library. 

Number  Seventeen. 


SELECTIONS 
From  The  Youth's  Companion. 


CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

PLYMOUTH  ROCK     .  J.  E.  CHAMBERLIN.  3 

PROVINCETOWN  WILLIAM  W.  NOLEN.  8 

CAPE  COD  CRANBERRIES  ALICE  BROWN.  13 

NEWPORT   MAX  OWEN.  19 

A  GREAT  ARBORETUM  J.  E.  CHAMBERLIN.  22 

A  BOSTON  MARKET  ALICE  BROWN.  27 

A  MAPLE-SUGAR  CAMP                                                        RUTH  RUSS.  33 

A  NEW  HAMPSHIRE  FISH-FARM                                           M.  HAWKS.  37 

AMONG  THE  PINES   MRS.  H.  G.  ROWE.  41 

A  WINTER  HARVEST  J.  E.  CHAMBERLIN.  46 

MOOSE-CALLING                                                         WILLIAM  J.  LONG.  52 

FOX-HUNTING  IN  NEW  ENGLAND      .       .       .    LOUIS  B.  CLEVELAND.  59 


Copyright,  1898. 
PERRY  MASON  &  COMPANY, 
Boston,  Mass. 


National  Monument  to  the  Forefathers. 


Plymouth  Rock. 


Every  summer  thousands  of  people  from  the  country  outside 
New  England  visit  the  neighborhood  of  Boston.  While  there, 
they  generally  show  no  small  amount  of  interest  in  historic 
sites.  Many  embark  on  the  little  steamer  that  plies  daily 
between  Boston  and  Plymouth,  and  make  thus  a  pious  pilgrim- 
age to  the  celebrated  Rock,  which  is  coming  to  mean  to 
Americans  somewhat  the  same  thing  that  the  famous  stone  at 
Mecca  means  to  the  Moslems. 

It  is  a  pleasant  trip  by  water  to  Plymouth.  The  visitor 
from  a  distant  part  of  the  country  generally  remains  on  the 
forward  deck,  watching  the  sandy  shores,  golden  in  the  morn- 
ing sun  ;  he  gazes  interestedly  at  Minot's  Ledge  Lighthouse, 
of  which  there  was  a  picture  in  the  geography  which  he  studied 
at  school,  and  muses  over  the  wooded  shore  of  Marshfield. 
where  Daniel  Webster  lived  and  died. 

But  long  before  Plymouth  is  reached,  the  pilgrim's  attention 
is  likely  to  be  diverted  from  the  great  beauty  of  the  bay  and  its 
hilly,  monument-crowned  shores  by  his  extreme  desire  to  get 
an  early  glimpse  of  the  Rock. 

All  the  strangers  are  simply  straining  their  eyes  to  see  the 
Rock  ;  and  when  the  landing  is  made  on  the  long  wharf,  the 
procession  of  people  from  distant  parts  takes  up  a  steady  and 
rapid  march  toward  a  curious  canopied  structure  in  the 
distance,  which  has  been  pointed  out  to  them. 

The  first  thought  which  all  of  them  have  is  this  :  "  Why  is 
the  rock  so  far  from  the  water  ?  "  It  seems  to  be  distinctly 
inland,  and  is  really  at  several  rods'  distance  from  the  present 
shore.  And  yet  there  is  no  doubt  that  it  was  formerly  by  the 
water's  edge.  The  building  of  wharves  and  the  dumping  of 
earth  for  nearly  three  hundred  years  has  carried  the  shore  line 
out  into  the  harbor. 

When  these  modern  pilgrims  come  flocking  up,  they  behold 


Op 

r 


4 


ri.VJVIOllTlI  KOCK. 


a  structure  of  carved  granite,  which  looks  very  tall  in  proportion 
to  its  diameter,  with  a  round  column  at  each  corner.  This 
structure  is  The  Canopy.  It  is  designed  to  mark  the  site 
of  the  Rock,  and  protect  it  from  desecration. 

Within  this  structure  an  iron  fence  surrounds  the  Rock 
itself.  This  fence  tends  to  increase  the  reverential  feeling  that  a 
visitor  has  for  the  Rock,  for  it  seems  to 
^  set  it  apart  forever  as  a  thing  not  to  be 
touched.  But  at  each  end  of  the  en- 
closure there  is  a  gate  ;  and  these  two 
gates  are  unlocked  for  visitors,  and 
actual  access  to  the  Rock  itself  is 
permitted. 

This  permission  in  its  turn  adds  to 
the  spirit  of  veneration,  for  one  feels 
that,  as  the  barrier  of  iron  has  been 
hospitably  broken  for  his  benefit,  he 
must  not  fail  to  estimate  the  privilege  at 
its  highest  valuation. 

Then  the  crowd  from  the  boat  begin 
to  file  through,  past  the  Rock,  or  upon 
it.  In  looking  at  them,  one  is  made  aware  how  false  is  the 
assumption  that  Americans  are  an  unemotional  people.  They 
often  behave  in  a  most  extraordinary  way  here. 

Nearly  all  bend  down  and  press  the  palms  of  their  hands 
upon  the  Rock,  and  especially  upon  the  figures  1620,  which 
are  sunk  into  its  surface,  as  if  the  Pilgrims  from  the  Mayflower 
had  carved  them  there.  Now  and  then  a  woman  bends  down 
and  kisses  the  Rock,  or  makes  a  child  do  so.  It  is  no  un- 
common thing  for  two  people  to  stand  on  the  stone  and 
embrace  each  other.  Many  stand  on  the  Rock  long  enough  to 
make  good  resolutions,  and  imagine  that  they  will  keep  them 
the  more  sacredly  for  their  being  made  at  such  a  place. 

They  are  not  deterred  from  making  these  demonstrations  by 
the  bearing  of  the  crowd  about  them.  There  is  no  laughter 
and  merrymaking  about  it ;  all  is  done  with  solemnity. 


The  Canopy. 


PIvYMOUTH  ROCK. 


5 


The  hill  which  overlooks  the  Rock  is  indubitably  sacred 
ground,  for  upon  it  the  Mayflowet-  Pilgrims  -who  died  during 
that  first  terrible  winter  in  the  new  colony  were  buried  in 
unmarked  graves,  that  they  might  not  be  counted  by  the 
Indians. 

After  visiting  the  Rock,  excursionists  scatter  through  the 
beautiful  old  town  to  admire  its  dainty  white  houses  of  ancient 
architecture,  and  its  narrow  streets  deeply  shaded  with  great 
linden  and  elm  trees ;  or  to  visit  the  old  Burial-Ground,  the 
Museum  and  the  Monument. 

Visitors  arriving  in  Plymouth  by  cars  will  naturally  visit 
these  places  in  reverse  order.  They  will  see  on  the  hill,  not 
far  from  the  station,  the  National  Monument  to  the  Forefathers, 
a  marble  statue  forty-five  feet  high,  standing  on  a  lofty  pedestal 


Plymouth  from  the  Harbor. 

which  bears  at  the  four  corners  symbolic  figures.  Freedom, 
Morality,  Education  and  lyaw,  and  historic  panels  on  its  sides. 

In  Pilgrim  Hall  one  is  surprised  to  find  so  large  a  collection 
of  articles  brought  over  in  the  Mayflower  and  other  relics  of  the 
earliest  Colonial  days.  On  Burial  Hill  it  is  interesting  to  see 
the  earliest  marked  graves,  and  the  site  of  the  first  church  of 
Plymouth,  which  with  cannon  mounted  on  its  roof  was  also 
the  first  fort.  But  after  all,  the  most  interesting  object  is  the 
Rock. 

To  very  few  of  these  excursionists  does  it  ever  occur  to 


6 


PIA'MOUTH  ROCK. 


doubt  the  authenticity  of  the  Rock,  or  to  ask  how  it  is  known 
that  the  passengers  of  the  Mayflower  landed  on  it.  Most  people 
suppose  that  the  Rock  is  mentioned  in  the  early  accounts  of 
the  landing  ;  but  such  is  not  the  case. 

There  is  but  one  original  account  of  this  first  landing,  and 
it  relates  that,  after  the  people  of  the  Mayflower  had  left  Clark's 
Island,  "  they  sounded  ye  harbour  &  found  it  fitt  for  shipping, 
and  marched  into  ye  land  &  found  diverse  corn-fields  &  little 
running  brooks,  a  place  fitt  for  situation  ;  at  least  it  is  ye  best 
they  could  find."    Nothing  whatever  is  there  about  landing  on 


persons  to  build  a  wharf  on  the  shore ;  and  these  persons 
proceeded  then  to  cover  up  with  their  wharf  a  rock  which  lay 
there. 

And  then  appeared  Thomas  Faunce,  a  man  ninety-four 
years  old,  who  lived  in  the  farming  country  back  of  Plymouth. 
He  told  the  wharf-builders  that  they  ought  not  to  cover  up  this 
rock.  When  he  was  a  boy,  he  said,  his  father  had  assured 
him  that  the  passengers  of  the  Mayflower  landed  upon  it. 

It  does  not  appear  that  any  other  Plymouth  people  came 
forward  and  supported  this  tradition.  At  any  rate  the  wharf 
was  built,  and  though  the  stone  was  not  covered  up,  it  became 
the  door- step  of  a  warehouse. 

When  people  began  to  investigate  the  story  of  Thomas 
Faunce's  warning,  they  looked  in  the  records  to  see  if  his 


a  rock  ;  nor  does  any 
early  account  of  pro- 
ceedings at  Plymouth 
even  mention  a  rock. 


Plymouth  Rock. 


But  in  the  year 
1 74 1,  nearly  one  hun- 
dre(J  and  twenty-one 
years  after  the  land- 
ing of  the  Pilgrims, 
permission  was  grant- 
ed by  the  town  of 
Plymouth  to  certain 


PIvYMOUTH  ROCK. 


7 


father  had  been  a  passenger  on  the  Mayflo7ver^  and  they  found 
that  he  had  not.  But  they  did  find  that  Thomas  Faunce  was 
born  in  the  year  1647,  and  that  in  his  early  life  in  Plymouth  he 
must  have  known  some  of  the  Mayflower' s  passengers. 

Therefore  his  story  was  entitled  to  some  credit.  Faunce 
was  talking  of  a  thing  that  was  almost  within  his  own  recollec- 
tion, and  completely  in  the  recollection  of  the  generation  before 
him. 

Moreover,  there  are  no  other  rocks  along  the  shore  in  that 
neighborhood.  This  one,  at  the  time  of  the  landing,  must 
have  stood  out,  solitary  and  alone,  on  a  shore  which,  according 
to  the  Pilgrims'  relation,  "was  compassed  about  to  the  very 
sea  with  oaks,  pines,  juniper,  sassafras  and  other  sweet  wood." 
In  the  midst  of  such  a  wilderness,  a  rock  projecting  boldly 
from  the  shallow  shore  would  have  provided  a  natural  landing- 
place. 

Farther  down  the  bay,  in  the  adjoining  town  of  Kingston, 
there  is  at  this  day  such  another  rock,  not  carried  inland  by 
the  filling  up  of  the  shallow  waters.  One  has  but  to  approach 
this  Kingston  rock  in  a  boat  from  the  bay  to  see  how  its 
brother  of  Plymouth  must  have  beckoned  a  welcome  to  the 
passengers  of  the  Mayfloiver. 

The  Plymouth  tradition  of  the  Rock  therefore  seems  to 
have  a  good  basis  in  reason  and  probability.  At  any  rate,  it 
has  grown  steadfastly  with  time.  And  now  the  legend  is  fixed, 
and  rendered  sacred  by  time  and  common  acceptance.  The 
American  who  loves  his  country  can  hardly  look  without 
genuine  emotion  on  this  Rock  of  Plymouth,  where  the 
American  experiment  of  local  self-government  was  reall}^ 
begun  under  the  most  thrilling  circumstances. 


J.  E.  Chamberlin. 


Provincetown 


There  is  no  quainter  place  on  the  stretch  of  coast  from  Cape 
Cod  to  Cape  Ann,  than  the  curious  fishing  town  of  which 
Thoreau  has  said,  "A  man  may  stand  there  and  put  all 
America  behind  him."  Provincetown  is  not  only  a  quaint 
town,  pleasant  to  live  in,  but  it  is  also  an  excellent  place 
for  shore  work  in  natural  history.  That  is  the  reason  why 
a  small  party  of  people  interested  in  science  chose  it  for  a 
collecting  trip. 

Provincetown  has  one  main  street.  Therefore,  when  the 
night  train  comes  in,  the  traveller  is  not  puzzled  about  the  way 
to  turn.  He  soon  reaches  his  hotel,  where  he  is  sure  to  get  a 
cordial  welcome,  especially  if  he  comes  in  the  spring  when 
guests  are  not  numerous.  At  the  time  of  year  we  went 
any  stranger  was  a  curiosity,  and  especially  scientific  strangers. 

Crowds  of  youthful  admirers  followed  our  party  about  from 
place  to  place,  rather  more  eager  to  have  a  finger  in  our  pie 
than  was  convenient  or  desirable. 

Cloudy  days  are  rather  more  pleasant  for  work  on  the  shore 
than  on  the  water,  and  the  first  morning  we  spent  in  wandering 
along  the  uneven,  sandy  shore,  where  the  wind  has  made 
many  hills  and  hollows.  There  is  not  much  vegetation  to  bind 
down  the  sands,  and  they  continually  tend  to  drift. 

The  Cape  people  erect  in  the  most  exposed  places  pyramids 
and  hedges  of  staves,  making  them  firm  with  stones  so  as  to 
prevent  the  sand  moving  in  an  undesired  direction.  In  a  good 
many  places  a  rough  beach-grass  grows,  which  forms  the 
anchor  of  the  Cape,  since  the  woods  which  previously  existed 
there  have  been  buried  by  the  sands. 

At  some  places  on  the  Cape  the  government  erects  stone 
embankments  along  the  edge  of  the  beach  to  prevent  serious 
changes  in  the  coast-line.  The  changes  in  the  position  of  the 
sand  were  well  shown  a  few  years  ago,  when  its  shifting 


PROVINCETOWN. 


9 


i 


exposed  the  wreck  of  a  British  vessel  of  the  old  colonial  times, 
the  existence  of  which  had  been  unsuspected  by  the  present 
generation.  Farther  down  the  Cape,  at  Orleans,  there  was 
uncovered  in  1863  the  hull  of  an  ancient  ship,  a  quarter  of  a 
mile  from  any  water.  The  hull  was  supposed  to  be  that  of  the 
Sparrow-hawk^  stranded  in  1626. 

The  windows  on  the  sea-side  of  the  Cape  houses  show  the 
effects  of  the  blowing  sand,  which  grinds  them  until  they 
become  opaque.  Be- 
tween the  hills  of 
sand  lying  back  of 
the  beach  are  many 
cranberry  bogs,  cov- 
ered in  May  with 
beautiful  white  flow- 
ers. Cranberries, 
next  to  fish,  are  the 
most  important  prod- 
uct of  the  Cape. 

On  the  sand  could 
be  picked  up  many  of 
the  black,  leathery, 
purse-shaped  eggs  of 
the  skate,  with  their 
two  prong-like  ex- 
tensions on  each  side. 
The  eggs  are  among 
the  common  objects 
on  the  shore,  and 
look  very  pretty  when 
covered  with  the  delicate  little  sea-animals  that  grow  over  them. 
As  we  wandered  we  also  found  many  bits  of  rockweed  covered 
with  the  neatly-formed  spiral  tubes  of  some  annelid  worms. 

We  took  a  share  in  clam-digging,  and  turned  up  many  of 
the  soft  or  long  clams  used  in  every  bake.  This  fellow  is  easy 
to  get,  as  he  lives  just  below  the  surface  of  the  sand,  and  keeps 


Main  Street. 


lO 


PROVINCKTOWN. 


connection  with  the  water  by  a  long,  black  tube  commonly 
called  the  head.  His  mouth  is  really  at  the  opposite  end  from 
the  tube,  and  the  water  containing  the  food  has  to  run  round  the 
body  of  the  clam  before  reaching  it. 

Another  clam,  not  nearly  so  easy  to  capture,  because  it 
burrows  as  fast  as  a  man  can  dig,  is  the  razor  clam,  long  and 
narrow,  with  a  black  shell.  He  must  be  got  with  one  quick 
thrust  of  the  spade,  and  may  be  enticed  from  his  sandy  burrow 
by  sprinkling  salt  on  the  sand. 

Shells  are  quite  plenty  along  the  beach.  One  of  the  most 
common  is  the  whitish  Purpura.  This  snail  gets  its  food  by 
boring  through  the  shells  of  barnacles  and  various  shell-fish. 
From  cousins  of  the  Purpura  the  famous  ancient  dye,  Tyrian 
purple,  was  obtained.  On  puncturing  the  animal  a  greenish 
fluid  exudes,  which  changes  to  purple  in  the  sunshine. 

It  takes  five  snails  to  dye  a  square  inch  of  cloth,  and  the 
ancients  obtained  the  dye  by  the  tedious  process  of  putting 
the  shells  into  a  mortar,  crushing  them,  and  mixing  the  product 
with  water  and  salt  or  nitre.  So  great  was  the  labor  of 
preparing  the  dye,  that  in  the  reign  of  Augustus  one  pound 
of  the  dyed  wool  sold  for  one  hundred  and  seventy-five  dollars. 

Another  snail,  Lunatia,  found  along  the  shore,  drills  holes 
in  shell-fish  by  using  the  small,  flinty  teeth  on  its  ribbon-like 
tongue.  It  is  perfectly  indifferent  as  to  the  object  it  attacks, 
not  even  sparing  its  own  young. 

After  the  snail  has  died,  and  its  shell  lies  abandoned  on  the 
beach,  the  hermit-crab,  in  order  to  protect  its  soft  body,  often 
takes  possession,  and  carries  the  shell  around  on  its  back. 
These  little  crabs  are  very  active  and  ready  to  fight  one 
another,  but  they  are  also  great  cowards,  and  after  a  prelimi- 
nary skirmish  each  combatant  is  likely  to  retreat  into  his  shell, 
and  close  its  opening  with  his  big  claws. 

There  is  often  quite  an  active  demand  for  empty  shells, 
when  several  crabs,  which  have  grown  too  large  for  their 
rented  quarters,  have  to  change  their  houses.  Then  if  two 
crabs  come  to  the  same  empty  shell,  a  fight  for  its  possession 


PROVINCETOWN. 


II 


often  ensuCvS.  The  house  does  not  vServe  to  protect  the  little 
fellow  from  the  hungry  fishes,  for  they  swallow  Mr.  Crab, 
house  and  all. 

The  most  interesting  things  on  the  Provincetown  shore  are 
some  whale  skeletons,  well  bleached  by  the  winds  and  waves. 
The  whale  fishery  of  New  England  had  its  beginning  at  this 
town,  and  even  though  the  finback  grows  less  plenty  and 
more  shy  each  year,  the  chase  has  not  been  entirely  given  up. 

The  animals  were  formerly  hunted  with  sailboat  and 
harpoon,  but  as  they  became  fewer  the  sailboat  got  to  be  too 
slow,  and  a  few  years  ago  the  steamer  was  substituted.  The 
boat  steams  up  as  close  as  possible  to  the  whale,  a  bridge  is 


Provincetown. 


thrown  out  at  the  bow,  and  from  the  end  of  this  two  men  make 
the  attack.  They  fire  a  bomb-lance  from  a  gun  and  the  bomb 
explodes  in  the  body  of  the  animal  and  kills  it. 

Sometimes  the  whale  gets  away,  oftener  still  he  is  not 
present  at  all.  When  shot,  the  animal  sinks,  and  then  the 
whaler  has  to  watch  for  him  to  rise  again.  This  happens 
when  decomposition  has  generated  gases  in  the  body.  The 
carcass  is  then  towed  ashore  and  cut  up,  and  the  part  not  used 
carried  out  to  sea  and  abandoned. 

In  former  times  larger  whales  must  have  come  into  Prov- 
incetown harbor  and  thereabouts  than  now  appear,  for  in  1755 
Doctor  Burchsted  rode  in  his  horse  and  chaise  into  the  mouth 
of  one  landed  on  King's  Beach.  He  afterward  had  two  of  its 
bones  used  for  gate-posts  at  his  house  in  Lynn. 


12 


PROVINCETOWN. 


The  custom  of  decorating  front  yards  with  whales'  jaws 
continues  in  Provincetown.  They  afford  a  quaint  and 
inexpensive  substitute  for  flowers  in  a  place  where  all  but  the 
hardiest  vegetation  has  a  short  and  troubled  life.  Finback 
bones  are  plenty  at  the  Cape.  At  the  old,  abandoned  blubber 
works  at  Long  Point,  there  is  a  ship-load  of  them  waiting  to  be 
carried  away  by  curiosity-hunters.  A  little  upholstering  will 
convert  a  big  vertebra  into  a  comfortable  stool. 

Main  Street,  Provincetown,  follows  the  sand  up  the  hills 
and  down  the  hollows,  having  on  one  side  a  narrow  plank 
walk,  on  the  other  side  often  separated  from  the  ocean  by  a 
stretch  of  beach.  It  is  not  a  paved  street ;  but  tramping  and 
liberal  use  of  shells  has  made  it  tolerably  hard,  and  smooth 
enough  for  the  slow  driving  of  the  town.  Quite  a  number  of 
shops  are  scattered  along  the  streets.  Those  which  are  not 
connected  with  the  fishing  industries  are  often  general  in 
character,  and  keep  everything  from  crib  to  coffin  in  stock. 

Many  of  the  yards  of  the  houses  contain  flakes,  which  are 
long,  rough  frames  on  which  the  salt-fish  are  spread  by  the 
older  men  every  sunny  morning  to  dry.  Between  these  are 
other  yards  with  boats  hauled  up  in  them,  and  fishing-nets 
spread  out  to  be  mended. 

Low  carts,  with  the  body  hung  below  the  axles  of  the 
wheels,  are  drawn  by  sober  horses  through  the  street ;  and  on 
the  sidewalk  the  town  crier,  like  the  famed  one  of  Nantucket, 
except  that  he  has  a  bell,  walks  slowly  along,  now  and  then 
halting  to  cry  a  piece  of  news  or  notice  of  some  meeting. 

Near  the  railroad  and  at  other  points  long  wharves  stretch 
seaward  ;  for  since,  on  account  of  the  shallow  water,  shipping 
could  not  get  to  the  town,  the  town  has  gone  to  it. 

Sea  yarns  have  a  flavor  on  the  coast  which  they  lack  farther 
inland,  and  the  conscience  of  an  old  sailor  is  so  elastic  when  a 
yarn  is  being  spun  that  he  can  make  his  story  exciting  and 
wonderful  enough  to  satisfy  the  most  exacting. 

WiLUAM  W.  N01.EN. 


Cape  Cod  Cranberries. 


' '  Three  years  ago  that  land  was  fit  for  nothing  but  to  hold 
the  world  together,"  said  a  prosperous  Cape  Cod  owner, 
surveying  his  cranberry  marsh  with  pride,  "and  now  it's 
worth  a  thousand  dollars  an  acre." 

It  does  seem  as  if  fairy  tales  had  come  true,  when  unsightly 
bogs  can  thus  be  turned  into  gold,  until  one  remembers 
that  the  means  employed  are  the  prosaic  ones  of  time,  labor 
and  capital.  A  marsh  is  selected  in  the  neighborhood  of 
running  water,  its  tangle  of  bushes  is  burned,  stumps  and 
roots  are  removed,  and  the  sods  cut  and .  turned  over  to 
give  a  uniform  bottom  of  the  rich  underlying  loam,  which  is 
afterward  covered  with  sand  from  two  to  six  inches  deep. 

Bach  bog  is  then  encircled  by  a  low  dike  of  earth,  inside 
which  is  a  ditch,  and  ditches  are  cut  across  it  at  distances 
governed  by  the  character  of  the  soil  and  its  consequent 
demand  for  a  greater  or  less  amount  of  moisture.  Then  the 
ground  is  ready  for  planting,  and  so  hardy  is  the  cranberry 
that  this  operation  can  be  successfully  performed  in  an 
apparently  reckless  manner. 

A  mass  of  plants  is  sometimes  run  through  a  hay-cutter, 
which  chops  them  into  bits  an  inch  long,  and  these  are  sown 
broadcast  and  harrowed  into  the  soil  like  oats,  3^et,  after  such 
heroic  treatment,  they  live  and  spread  undauntedly. 

The  most  approved  method  of  planting,  however,  is  that  of 
marking  off  the  ground  into  squares  of  eighteen  inches,  ,by 
drawing  across  it  a  sled  having  several  runners.  The  cuttings 
are  then  dropped  at  the  intersection  of  these  lines,  and  pressed 
into  the  earth  with  a  forked  stick. 

All  winter,  and  until  the  early  spring,  the  cranberry 
meadows  are  flooded  with  water,  not  only  to  guard  the  plants 
against  frost,  but  that  insect  eggs  may  be  killed,  and  the 
fertilizing  agencies  deposited  which  are  brought  by  the  stream. 


/ 


14 


CAPE  COD  CRANBERRIES. 


Simply  constructed  gates  of  wood  separate  each  diked 
enclosure  from  its  neighbor,  and  by  these  the  water-supply  can 
be  exactly  regulated.  It  is  often  necessary  to  raise  the  water 
in  a  meadow  while  the  berries  are  ripening,  for  the  cranberr}^ 
is  only  happy  when  its  roots,  imbedded  in  the  rich,  peaty  soil, 
are  kept  moist,  while  the  sand  above  is  dry. 

In  its  third  year  of  growth  a  cranberry  marsh  is  ready  to 
begin  paying  for  itself,  and  the  picking  season  usually  lasts 
from  the  middle  of  September  for  about  six  weeks. 

This  brings  about  an  odd  division  of  the  school  year  in  the 
cranberry  districts.  Their  summer  term  is  lengthened  and 
the  spring  vacation  cut  short,  to  enable  the  fall  term  to  begin 
near  the  first  of  November.  This  is  really  a  matter  of  necessity 
rather  than  of  choice  with  the  committee,  for  should  the  schools 
open,  not  a  single  pupil  would  appear  except  the  smallest 
toddlers,  whom  the  mother  would  gladly  send  out  of  the 
way,  that  she  might  devote  herself  to  cranberry-picking. 

Picking  time  is  the  carnival  season  of  the  Cape.  The 
ordinary  business  of  life  is  suspended.  Houses  are  closed  from 
early  morning  till  night.  Cooking  is  done  in  the  evening  or 
on  rainy  days,  and  beds  are  merel}^  spread  up  in  time  for  the 
tired  workers  to  tumble  into  them.  Flocks  of  pickers  of  all 
ages  and  sizes  settle  upon  the  large  cranberry  marshes  like 
swarms  of  locusts. 

Even  grandfather  comes  eagerly  quavering  along,  prepared 
to  earn  a  little  money  to  provide  for  his  daily  smoke  in  the 
chimney-corner.  Fathers  and  mothers  of  families  depend  on 
the  season  for  supplying  many  of  their  every-day  needs  ;  and 
many  a  pretty  girl  who  would  scorn  going  out  to  work  at  any 
other  time,  gladly  undertakes  this  back-breaking  occupation 
for  the  sake  of  the  pin-money  it  brings. 

Every  picker  dons  his  or  her  worst  and  sometimes  most 
picturesque  clothes  for  the  occasion.  Old  hats  and  cape 
bonnets  that  have,  perhaps,  hung  in  the  shed  or  garret  the 
year  round,  are  seized  upon  as  exactly  the  thing.  Stocking- 
.  legs  are  drawn  over  feminine  arms  as  a  defensive  armor  against  ' 


CAPK  COD  CKANBKKRiKvS. 


15 


sun  and  briers.  Each  picker  is  furnished  with  a  measure 
holding  six  quarts,  and  the  ground  is  marked  off  in  rows, 
usually  about  four  feet  wide,  by  cords  stretched  from  pegs. 

Often  these  spaces  are  varied,  as  some  of  the  best  pickers 
prefer  to  work  in  a  division  alone  ;  or  a  party  of  three  girls,  or 
mother  and  children,  wish  to  pick  together. 

A  veteran  picker  is  the  old   lady  who   appears   in  the 
accompanying  illustration,  and  who  has  allowed  her  portrait  to 
be  used  on  condition  that  no  lies  and  nothing  scandalous 
shall  be  told  about  her.    She  is  one 
who  has  "picked  a  heap  o'  berries, 
one  sort  or  another,  got  together  a 
good  deal  o'  property,  and  always 
paid  her  minister  regular." 

Cranberries  are  not  picked  like 
strawberries,  daintily  and  one  by 
one.  Experienced  workers  plunge 
both  hands  under  the  vines,  palms 
upward  and  fingers  curved,  and 
literally  scoop  up  the  fruit  by  hand- 
fuls.  A  rake,  which  allows  the  vines 
to  pass  through  its  teeth  and  retains 
the  berries,  is  also  used,  but  is  far 

'  '  A  Veteran. 

less  satisfactory  than  hand  labor. 

When  a  measure  is  filled  and  emptied,  the  bookkeeper, 
standing  near,  gives  the  picker  credit  in  his  account,  though 
tally  is  sometimes  kept  by  means  of  tickets,  each  of  which 
represents  a  measure,  and  may  be  exchanged  at  the  store  for 
tea,  sugar  or  other  commodities. 

The  usual  price  paid  is  ten  cents  a  measure,  and  the 
laborers,  like  those  in  other  occupations,  have  their  streaks  of 
discontent. 

A  few  years  ago  a  strike  for  higher  wages  occurred  on  a 
large  marsh  where  there  were  five  hundred  pickers.  Fifty  of 
these,  preferring  a  half-loaf  to  no  bread,  kept  meekly  on  with 
their  work  at  the  old  price,  and,  sad  to  relate,  the  malcontents. 


i6 


CAPE  COD  CRANBERRIES. 


perched  comfortably  on  the  dikes  as  a  vantage-ground,  pelted 
them  with  a  shower  of  sticks  and  stones.  Harmony  was  finally 
restored  and  the  strikers  went  back  to  work,  but,  as  one  old 
lady  among  them  declared,  they  looked  thereafter  upon  the 
fifty  righteous  as  poor-spirited  creatures. 

"  Of  course,  as  they  work  by  the  job,  there  is  no  chance  of 
cheating,"  said  a  visitor  to  a  shrewd  proprietor. 

"  Aint  there,  though?"  he  replied,  skeptically.     "I  tell 


Picking  Cranberries. 


you,  cranberry-pickers  are  just  like  all  the  rest  of  the  world. 
Some  wouldn't  take  a  berry  to  save  their  lives,  and  others  lay 
awake  nights  to  think  how  to  fill  up  their  measures. 

' '  Some  will  slyly  take  a  new  measure  and  dent  in  the 
bottom,  and  others  have  got  a  way  of  giving  the  measures  a 
shake  so  as  to  toss  the  berries  up  and  make  five  quarts  look 
like  six.  Human  nature  is  mighty  human  on  a  cranberry 
bog  !  " 


CAPE  COD  cranbe:rries. 


17 


Berry-picking  has  its  champion  workers,  some  of  whom 
average  over  two  hundred  quarts  a  day,  and  there  is  a  well- 
supported  tradition  that  one  nimble-fingered  individual  once 
distinguished  himself  by  picking  three  hundred  and  fifty  quarts 
in  that  length  of  time. 

Such  workers  show  the  concentration  common  to  all 
champions.  They  seldom  speak,  but  bend  over  the  vines, 
giving  their  entire  attention  to  the  matter  in  hand.  Kven  at 
noon,  when  the  pickers  sit  about  on  the  grass,  eating  their 
dinners  from  baskets  and  pails,  these  more  zealous  members  of 
the  band  are  unwilling  to  spare  the  half  or  three-quarters  of  an 
hour  allotted  to  the  meal,  but  seize  a  hasty  bite  and  run  back 
to  work. 

There  are  certain  points  of  honor  to  be  observed  on  the 
meadow,  one  of  which  relates  to  that  operation  known  as 
picking  under  the  lines.  A  crafty  and  overreaching  worker 
may  see  and  covet  a  goodly  growth  of  berries  on  his  neighbor's 
preserves  ;  but  though  it  be  side  by  side  with  his  own,  he  may 
not,  under  penalt}'  of  remonstrance  more  forcible  than  pleasant, 
reach  under  for  a  sly  handful.  One  such  offence  might  be 
punished  and  forgiven,  but  a  repetition  of  it  would  cause  him 
to  be  ostracized  by  his  fellows,  who  would  ever  after  refuse  to 
pick  in  his  neighborhood. 

The  berries  are  screened,  or  separated  from  leaves  and 
foreign  substances,  by  means  of  a  simple,  box-shaped  arrange- 
ment, presided  over  by  women,  or,  with  the  more  enterprising 
owners,  by  a  clumsy-looking  but  most  ingenious  machine 
turned  by  a  crank. 

The  berries,  poured  in  at  the  top,  are  winnowed  by  a  blast 
of  air,  and  as  they  fall  on  a  glass  surface  below,  the  sound  ones 
are  separated  from  those  which  are  imperfect.  The  good 
berries  rebound,  and  hop,  of  their  own  accord,  upon  a  revolv- 
ing belt,  which  carries  them  out  of  the  machine,  while  the 
imperfect  ones  drop  down  into  a  receptacle  prepared  for 
them. 

The  perfect  fruit  is  then  placed  in  barrels  of  standard  size, 


i8 


CAPE   COD  CRANBERRIES. 


containing  one  hundred  quarts,  or  in  smaller  crates,  and  sent 
away  to  market. 

Frost-bitten  berries  have  always  been  utilized  for  the 
making  of  marmalade,  but  it  is  only  of  late  that  they  have  also 
been  used  for  dyeing.  Even  one  who  has  not  seen  the  color 
produced  can  imagine  how  royally  red  it  would  be. 

When  cranberries  are  exported,  it  would  be  interesting  to 
know  if  they  are  often  given  a  reception  similar  to  that  accorded 
by  an  English  gentleman  to  a  barrel  sent  him  by  a  friend. 

"  The  berries  arrived  safely,"  he  wrote  in  return,  "but  they 
soured  on  the  passage."  The  natural  inference  is  that  he  had 
attempted  to  eat  them  with  cream  and  sugar. 

When  we  are  told  that  a  fair  yield  of  cranberries  consists  of 
a  hundred  barrels  to  the  acre,  and  realize  that  a  fine  quality 
of  fruit  always  finds  a  ready  market,  it  is  easy  to  understand  a 
farmer's  sinking  all  his  capital  in  a  marsh,  or  embarking  with 
others  in  a  large  venture.  Of  a  stock  company  recently  formed 
for  cranberry  culture,  a  shrewd  citizen  embodies  the  opinion  of 
his  neighbors  in  declaring,  dryly:  "Pretty  good  stock  that; 
'twon't  hurt  it  any  to  water  it." 

Alice  Brown. 


Newport. 


It  is  a  curious  fact  that  the  smallest  state  in  the  Union 
bears  the  longest  official  title,  State  of  Rhode  Island  and 
Providence  Plantations,  and  that  the  same  state  is  the  only 
one  of  the  forty-five  to  possess  two  capitals. 

In  bustling,  progressive  Providence,  conveniently  located 
for  the  gatherings  of  the  legislators,  all  the  laws  are  made  for 
the  little  state,  and  the  executive  offices  are  there.  In  the 
antique  and  also  most' modern  city  of  Newport,  at  the  lower 
end  of  the  long  island  of  Rhodes,  the  government  of  the  state 
is  annually  installed. 

The  dignified  old  State-house  is  well  worthy  of  the  honor  of 
the  new  governor's  inauguration.  Standing  in  puritanic 
plainness,  it  has  witnessed  the  coming  and  going  of  governors 
since  1741,  and  its  history  gives  a  venerating  touch  to  the 
impressive  ceremonies  of  Inauguration  day. 

There  are  several  colonial  mansions  in  Newport  that,  like 
the  State-house,  suggest  the  sober  grandeur  of  the  eighteenth 
century.  From  these  old  homes  went  forth  men  who  gained 
distinction  in  letters  and  in  deeds. 

In  the  prim  little  Touro  Park  stands  a  plain  granite  shaft 
to  the  memory  of  a  native  of  Newport,  who  in  his  young 
manhood  won  the  brilliant  victory  on  lyake  Erie  that  placed 
the  name  of  Oliver  Perry  high  on  the  list  of  American  naval 
heroes. 

Another  monument  of  unknown  antiquity  commands 
attention  in  that  same  Touro  Park.  It  is  the  Old  Stone  Mill, 
the  subject  of  unsatisfactory  discussion  for  many  years.  Some 
claim  that  it  is  a  relic  of  the  eleventh  century,  erected  by 
the  wandering  Norseman  who  attempted  a  settlement  on  the 
Island  of  Peace. 

Yet  such  a  strange  structure  would,  it  seems,  have  attracted 
the  attention  of  the  English  settlers,  and  been  named  in  early 


20 


NEWPORT, 


records  and  letters  ;  but  the  earliest  mention  is  in  the  will  of 
Governor  Arnold,  who  died  in  1678,  and  bequeathed  his 
"  Stone-built  Windmill." 

It  is  a  circular  tower,  made  of  rather  small,  unhewn  stones, 
supported  by  round  arches  on  stone  pillars.    On  moonlight 


The  Old  Stone  Mill. 


nights  in  summer,  when  the  band  plays  in  the  park,  this 
unique  old  vStructure  fascinates  the  beholder,  and  suggests  to 
the  imagination  dreams  of  the  past  that  fancy  weaves  into 
poetic  visions  indescribable.  But  it  is  modern  Newport  that 
attracts  the  American  princes  and  the  Europeaip  ambassadors, 
the  Newport  of  the  last  half  century,  the  city  of  summer-time, 
of  luxury  and  beauty. 


NKWPOKT. 


21 


The  architect  and  the  engineer  have  built  the  palatial  villas 
and  constructed  the  magnificent  avenues  ;  the  landscape- 
gardener  has  beautified  the  lawns  and  planted  the  flowers  : 
but  Nature  long  ago  placed  there  the  soft  and  balmy  air, 
soothing  to  tired  nerves,  never  harsh  with  chill  or  wearying 
with  heat ;  the  most  romantic  of  cliff  scenery,  with  its  Paradise 
and  Purgatory,  its  Spouting  Rock  and  Bathing  Beach,  its 
endless  view  over  the  ocean's  boundless  horizon  and  its 
charming  picture  of  ba}^  and  islands,  and  the  miles  of  pathway 
in  which  no  hint  of  the  ocean's  proximity  is  possible. 

The  tourist,  on  his  first  visit  to  Newport,  is  always 
disappointed.  He  expects  to  see  the  magnificent  hotels  of 
Saratoga  ;  he  finds  one  modest  inn,  located  so  far  from  the 
beach  that  in  it  there  is  no  suggestion  of  a  watering-place. 

He  expects  to  find  the  beach  crowded  at  the  bathing  hour  ; 
he  finds  there  is  no  bathing  hour,  and  only  a  few  people  are  on 
the  beach,  except  on  excursion  days.  He  expects  to  find 
innumerable  cottages  nestling  side  by  side,  as  at  Cottage  City  ; 
he  sees  big  buildings  of  varied  schools  of  architecture,  some 
without  symmetry  or  style,  buried  in  the  surrounding  trees  and 
scattered  along  the  great  avenues. 

He  hopes  to  see  showy  crowds  of  women  and  men  on  beach 
or  cliff  or  park  ;  he  sees  a  few  quiet  people  on  street  or  lawn, 
till  the  time  for  the  afternoon  drive  on  the  avenue.  There,  or 
on  the  Long  Drive  to  Fort  Adams,  on  band  days,  he  is  simply 
bewildered  by  the  magnificence  of  the  turnouts  and  the  display 
in  the  carriages. 

If  he  is  so  fortunate  as  to  receive  an  invitation  to  one  of  the 
spreading  villas,  he  finds  within  the  most  elaborate  furnishings 
and  decorations  that  perfect  taste  and  unlimited  means 
command.  He  meets  the  most  graceful  ladies  and  polished 
gentlemen,  and  in  their  presence  he  realizes  the  meaning  of 
Newport's  high  repute.  It  is  the  inner  life  of  modern  Newport 
that  holds  the  potent  charm  over  every  one  who  gains  an 
entrance  to  its  society. 

Max  Owen. 


A  Great  Arboretum. 


American  tree-planting  has  passed  through  several  vStages, 
each  of  which  has  had  its  practical  and  its  poetic  side.  When 
our  ancestors  came  to  the  eastern  coast  of  North  America,  they 
found  many  more  trees  than  they  had  use  for.  They  cleared 
away  the  forests  by  axe  and  fire  that  they  might  have  the  use 
of  the  ground  ;  and  their  inherited  fondness  for  trees,  dulled 
for  the  time  being  by  the  fact  that  the  woods  were  in  their  way 
and  sheltered  all  sorts  of  enemies,  did  not  lead  them  to  spare 
many  of  the  forest  trees  about  their  dwellings. 

They  planted  a  certain  number  of  fruit-trees,  which  in 
almost  every  instance  came  from  the  seed  of  some  bit  of  fruit 
carefully  brought  from  the  old  home.  The  cherishing  of  these 
seedlings  from  the  mother  country  was  an  interesting  and 
romantic  thing ;  but  the  trees  that  grew  from  them  were 
generally  of  poor  quality. 

But  when  the  great  forests  had  ceased  to  be  so  terrible,  the 
ineradicable  tree-love  in  the  hearts  of  the  descendants  of 
tree- worshipping  Gauls  and  Britons  began  to  assert  itself. 
They  planted  a  few  English  shade-trees  in  their  dooryards  and 
on  the  streets  ;  but  as  a  rule,  the  European  trees,  adapted  to  a 
climate  radically  unlike  ours,  languished  and  died,  or  made 
but  sorry  specimens  in  maturity. 

Then,  after  our  ancestors  had  been  more  than  a  hundred 
years  established  upon  the  continent,  they  began  to  feel  a  love 
for  the  native  vegetation.  In  the  North  they  planted  many 
elms  and  maples,  which  have  grown  to  great  proportions.  In 
the  South  the  live-oak  was  planted,  or  was  cherished  where  it 
had  survived  or  had  sprung  up.  At  the  same  time  the  useful 
qualities  of  our  native  trees  began  to  be  recognized,  and  people 
began  to  cultivate  and  transplant  them.  Finally,  acquaintance 
with  the  vegetation  of  foreign  countries  in  climate  like  our 
own,  and  the  introduction  of  foreign  plants  of  beauty  or  value 


A  GREAT  ARBORKTITM. 


23 


which  will  thrive  in  our  soil,  have  given  variety  to  the  shade- 
trees  and  shrubbery  that  now  thrive  in  our  parks  and  lawns. 

It  is  in  its  relation  to  the  question  of  the  fitness  of  trees  and 
shrubs  for  cultivation  that  the  Arnold  Arboretum,  in  Boston,  is 
most  useful.  This  institution,  which  may  be  called  a  living, 
growing  manual  of  trees  and  shrubs  of  the  North  Temperate 
Zone,  was  established  chiefly  through  the  bounty  of  James 
Arnold,  of  New  Bedford,  who,  in  1872,  bequeathed  to  Harvard 


Arboretum  Driveway. 

College  one  hundred  thousand  dollars  to  establish  an  Arboretum, 
or  scientific  tree-garden. 

The  bequest  enabled  the  universit}'  to  add  to  the  Bussey 
Institution,  a  school  of  agriculture  with  w^hich  it  had  already 
been  endowed,  at  Jamaica  Plain,  within  the  limits  of  Boston, 
such  an  amount  of  land  that  the  Arboretum  now  comprises 
about  one  hundred  and  sixty-four  acres. 

The  Arboretum  is  far  from  being  a  mere  nursery,  where 


24 


A  GREAT  ARBORETUM. 


trees  and  shrubs  are  found  growing  in  rows.  There  is  within 
its  grounds,  indeed,  a  nursery,  where  labelled  plants  and  trees 
of  every  species  are  cultivated,  and  where  the  student  may 
always  find,  in  a  little  space,  every  woody  plant  which  will 
grow  out-of-doors  in  the  latitude  of  southern  New  England  ; 
but  this  nursery  occupies  but  a  corner  of  the  Arboretum. 

The  object  of  the  place  is  to  cultivate  these  trees  and  plants 

under  such  conditions  that  they 
will  all  assume  their  characteristic 
and  perfect  form,  both  when  the}' 
stand  alone  and  when  they  grow 
in  clumps  or  thickets.  This  in- 
volves a  vastly  greater  amount  of 
room  than  nursery  cultivation 
would  require. 

The  surface  of  the  Arboretum 
is  so  varied  as  to  provide  ever}^ 
sort  of  tree  with  the  kind  of  soil 
and  situation  that  it  prefers.  The 
lay  of  the  land  has  been  regarded 
in  selecting  the  ground  for  the  different  families  of  trees,  subject 
to  their  arrangement  according  to  botanical  sequence.  Here 
and  there  noble  trees,  already  standing,  have  been  spared, 
though  they  may  be  out  of  their  proper  relation. 

Inasmuch  as  certain  large  trees  thrive  best  when  they  have 
an  undergrowth  of  bushes,  they  have  been  accommodated  with 
the  thickets  which  they  like  best.  The  thickets  give  chance 
for  introducing  almost  everywhere  the  native  flowering  shrubs 
in  which  the  eastern  half  of  North  America  is  so  rich.  The 
excellent  roads  and  paths  which  run  through  the  Arboretum 
have  been  lined  with  these  beautiful  shrubs,  which  make  the 
roads  appear  as  if  they  ran  through  the  margin  of  a  particularly 
luxuriant  forest. 

In  walking  through  the  tract  where  the  oaks  grow,  one  natu- 
rally begins  with  the  big  native  white  oaks  of  Massachusetts, 
which  are  found  here  in  the  largest  size,  because  they  happened 


The  Nursery. 


A  GREAT  ARHORKTUM. 


25 


to  be  standing  here  when  the  Arboretum  was  started.  The 
white  oak  does  not  need  an  introduction  to  observant  people 
who  live  in  the  United  States  east  of  the  one  -  hundredth 
meridian  ;  but  Boston  folks  have  to  be  introduced  to  a  very 
familiar  friend  in  the  central  West,  the  bur-oak,  whose  acorns 
are  exceedingly  good  to  eat.  They  are  as  sweet  in  the 
Arboretum  as  they  are  in  the  marly  openings  of  southern 
Wisconsin  ;  but  the  trees  have  not  yet  reached  that  mature  and 
broadly  and  gnarly  spreading  stage  which  makes  the  bur-oak 
one  of  the  most  eminently  climbable  trees  in  the  world. 

It  is  a  favorite  tree  wherever  it  grows,  and  the  people 
bestow  upon  it,  in  certain  sections,  such  pleasant  names  as  the 
overcup  and  mossycup  oak,  on  account  of  the  curious  burry 
cup  in  which  its  edible  acorns  grow. 

Here  one  finds  European  and  Asiatic  oaks  ;  and  the  mention 
of  these  last  brings  us  by  a  short  cut  to  a  very  interesting 
feature  of  the  Arboretum,  the  propagating-ground,  where  the 
director  is  cultivating  the  young  trees  whose  seeds  he  has 
brought  from  Japan. 

The  northeastern  part  of  Asia  has  a  climate  which  so  much 
resembles  that  of  eastern  North  America  that  its  plants  and 
shrubs  are  usually  more  hardy  here  than  are  those  of  Europe. 
To  introduce  them  all  to  the  Arnold  Arboretum,  and  thence  to 
general  cultivation  as  many  of  them  as  are  beautiful  and 
interesting,  the  professor  made  a  journey  to  northern  Japan. 
There  he  obtained  the  seeds  of  a  great  many  trees  and  shrubs 
which  are  scarcely  or  not  at  all  known  in  America. 

These  seeds  he  brought  to  the  Arboretum  and  planted 
them  in  boxes.  The  plants  are  put  out  as  soon  as  they  are 
large  enough  and  the  weather  is  warm  enough.  In  open 
frames  on  the  grounds  we  may  see  hundreds  of  little  Japanese 
oaks,  birches,  hornbeams,  maples,  alders  and  magnolias  grow- 
ing, for  the  professor  found  in  the  northern  island  of  Japan  a 
large  magnolia  which  may  grow  on  the  frozen  hills  of  New 
England  or  the  wind-swept  plains  of  the  Northwest  as  thriftily 
as  maples  or  cottonwoods. 


26  A  GREAT  ARBORETUM. 

Here  is  a  garden  where  foreign  trees  of  a  little  larger  size 
are  growing  in  rows  with  cabbages  and  lettuce.  They  seem 
entirely  at  home  in  this  humble  company,  and  benefit  by  the 
cultivation  which  these  familiar  vegetables  get. 

They  have  still  another  stage  of  growth  to  complete  before 
they  can  be  planted  out  in  their  proper  place  in  the  Arboretum  ; 
and  this   last  stage  of   growth  in  the  propagating-grounds, 

where  the  young  trees  from  all 
parts  of  the  world  stand  in  rows,  is 
decidedly  interesting. 

Every  one  of  these  young  trees 
when  it  goes  into  its  permanent 
place,  has  its  location  definitely 
marked  upon  a  map  of  the  Arbore- 
tum. It  has  its  number,  and  its 
history  is  recorded,  the  time  and 
manner  of  its  planting,  the  origin 
of  its  seed,  and  every  fact  that  a 
botanist,  a  woodcraftsman  or  a 
student  would  ever  want  to  know. 

When  the  Arboretum  is  fully 
planted,  it  will  be  not  only  a  com- 
plete collection  of  all  the  trees  and 
shrubs  which  will  grow  in  the  climate  of  northeastern  America, 
but  a  systematized  record  of  the  characteristics  and  capabilities, 
the  strength  and  the  weakness,  of  each  plant  for  every  sort  of 
cultivation. 

Add  to  this  the  museum  of  woods  and  the  great  tree  library 
on  the  grounds,  which  is,  no  doubt,  the  best  in  the  world,  and 
we  have  an  idea  what  a  great  arboretum  may  be.  It  was 
certainly  a  noble  thought  to  endow  and  put  into  operation  such 
an  institution.  It  looks  toward  a  future  of  such  gardening, 
park-making  and  foresting  as  will  not  only  express  the 
instinctive  love  of  Americans  for  trees,  but  realize  the  magnifi- 
cent capabilities  of  our  soil  and  climate. 

J.  K.  Chamberlin. 


A  Boston  Market. 


When  the  first  of  the  sleepy  milkmen  are  going  their  rounds, 
and  the  luxurious  man  lies  fathoms  deep  in  one  of  his  half- 
dozen  morning  naps,  then  the  markets  which  feed  great  cities 
are  teaming  with  bustle  and  interest.  If  the  citizen  of  Boston 
who  finds  a  comfortable  breakfast  on  his  table  is  curious  to 
trace  its  source  beyond  the  kitchen,  he  may  rise  at  cockcrow, 
in  places  where  crowing  is  a  daily  fashion,  and  visit  the  old 
historic  Faneuil  Hall  Market  owned  by  his  city. 

He  will  hardly  be  among  the  earliest  comers,  however,  for 
the  wagons  of  the  market-gardeners,  laden  with  fruit  and 
vegetables,  often  start  at  nightfall,  and  sometimes  at  four 
o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  that  they  may  be  at  the  market 
betimes  next  morning. 

Many  of  these  men  drive  in  from  towns  immediately 
adjoining  the  city  ;  but  some  of  them  come  from  places  thirty- 
five  miles  away,  seeking  short  cuts  that  they  may  be  first  at 
the  ferries,  and  first  in  reaching  their  destination  and  securing 
standing-ground  there. 

Arrived  at  the  market,  whether  at  midnight  or  in  the 
morning  darkness,  the  men  arrange  their  wagons  in  short, 
orderly  rows  beside  the  great  building,  so  that  plenty  of 
space  is  left  in  which  to  drive  and  walk  between  the  groups. 
Then  the  horses  are  unharnessed  and  stabled,  and  the  carefully 
covered  wagons  left  in  charge  of  the  night  watchmen,  who  also 
guard  the  boxes  and  barrels  left  outside  the  building,  while 
the  sleepy  drivers  find  some  comfortable  corner  to  drowse  in 
until  the  moment  of  action. 

With  the  first  peep  of  light  they  are  back  at  their  posts, 
and  begin  to  uncover  their  loads,  chatting  together,  exchanging 
jokes,  and  talking  over  the  probable  market  prices  for  the  day. 

Presently  appear  the  picturesque  figures  of  women,  with 
rough,  uncovered  hair,  tattered  dresses  and  faded  shawls,  each 


28 


A  BOSTON  MARKET. 


bearing  a  capacious  basket  on  one  arm.  They  wander  about, 
hoping  to  pick  up  a  discarded  vegetable  here  and  there,  and 
waiting  for  the  barrels  of  refuse  to  be  brought  out  from  the 
stalls  within. 

When  these  barrels  are  deposited  on  the  sidewalk  an  eager 
search  begins,  and  the  baskets  are  speedily  enriched  with 


Faneuil  Hall  Market. 


cauliflowers  which  show  the  first  brown  specks  of  decay, 
bunches  of  celery  containing  one  or  two  perfect  stalks,  and 
sweet  potatoes  partially  spongy  from  age  or  misfortune. 

Ah  !  it's  many  a  fine  bit  ye  can  pick  up  here  to  put  in  the 
soup  pot!  "  calls  one  woman,  glancing  at  an  observer  with  a 
knowing  look  which  is  almost  a  wink ;   and  another  thrifty 


A  BOSTON  MARKET. 


29 


gleaner  adds,  as  she  seizes  upon  a  wrinkled  turnip,  "  Five 
courses  I'll  have,  the  day,  and  if  Jimmie  buys  a  bit  of  liver 
there'll  be  six  !  " 

With  every  increasing  ray  of  light,  come  wagons  from  the 
provision  stores  and  smaller  markets  of  the  city,  to  select  from 
the  waiting  carts  large  quantities  of  the  vegetables  and  fruit 
needed  for  their  daily  sales.  The  scene  becomes  animated  ;  the 
broad  street  is  alive  with  voices.  On  Friday,  especially, 
the  day  when  suburban  stores  send  in  for  their  Saturday's 
stock  of  provisions,  it  is  difficult  to  find  one's  way  about  among 
the  carts,  without  jostling  eager  bargainers. 

Perhaps  the  most  interesting  season  to  visit  the  market  is 
during  the  summer  or  early  fall,  when  thousands  of  berry 
boxes  or  great  loads  of  peaches  arrive  daily.  A  few  firms  sell 
their  fruit  by  auction,  and  this  naturally  adds  a  lively  excite- 
ment to  the  scene.  Groups  of  Italian  owners  of  fruit-stands 
are  on  the  spot  betimes.  One  marketman  says  of  them,  "  An 
Italian  starts  a  stand  on  nothing,  but  in  a  month  he  comes 
down  here  and  buys  whole  loads  of  fruit  for  cash." 

It  is  in  the  fall  that  the  market  wagons  are  most  delightful 
to  the  artistic  eye.  Pale  green  cabbages,  yellow^  squashes, 
piles  of  celery  in  varied  green,  and  golden  carrots  seem 
actually  to  light  the  air. 

Meanwhile,  as  this  fruit  and  vegetable  traffic  is  going  on  at 
one  side  of  the  market,  the  meat  has  arrived  on  the  other,  and 
is  rapidly  carried  into  stall  and  cellar.  Great  white-covered 
carts,  like  emigrant  wagons,  stand  there,  packed  to  the  very 
top  with  pink  and  white  carcasses ;  and  men  adorned  by 
burlap  mantles  fastened  with  a  skewer  are  busily  tossing  them 
into  their  destined  places. 

At  sunrise  a  gong  strikes,  and  the  market  proper,  the  great 
building  lined  with  stalls  flanking  a  central  walk,  is  opened  to 
trade.  Then  the  bustle  within  is  scarcely  exceeded  by  that 
without.  Men  hurry  about,  drawing  on  their  white  frocks  and 
overalls,  and  begin  to  remove  great  carcasses  of  meat  from  the 
sacking  which  has  protected  them  from  dust  through  the  night, 


Selling  from  the  Carts. 


A  BOSTON  MARKET. 


31 


or  hang  on  huge  iron  hooks  the  meat  which  has  just  been 
brought  in  from  the  storehouses. 

One  man  is  assorting  his  stock  of  eggs  by  testing  their 
freshness.  A  lighted  candle  is  placed  in  the  side  of  his  egg 
box,  and  over  this  he  holds  each  egg  for  a  second,  and  looks 
through  it,  before  passing  it  on  into  its  appropriate  place. 
The  degree  of  clearness  shown  through  the  shell  indicates,  to 
his  practised  eye,  the  probable  age  of  the  egg  and  its  state  of 
freshness. 

Quite  early  in  the  morning  come  the  stewards  of  the  great 
hotels,  to  buy  their  supplies  for  the  day,  and  then  sets  in  the 
regular  trade;  from  that  of  the  young  housekeeper  who  wants  a 
steak,  but  privately  wishes  she  knew  tenderloin  from  porter- 
house, to  that  of  the  boarding-house  keeper,  who  buys  in  large 
quantities,  expertly  selected. 

Meantime,  while  food  of  all  sorts  is  magically  appearing  in 
such  profusion,  comes  a  smaller  dealer,  whose  stock  is  fresh 
and  sweet  as  the  early  morning.  This  is  the  watercress 
woman,  a  slight  little  creature  who  comes  in  tugging  a  big 
basket  filled  with  bunches  of  cress,  dark  green  in  its  freshness, 
and  dripping  with  moisture.  This  she  sells  by  the  dozen 
bunches  at  the  different  stalls. 

There  is  something  fascinating  in  the  idea  of  her  trade,  so 
connected  is  it  with  damp  fields  and  clear,  running  water. 

Then,  bringing  an  odor  sweeter  than  that  from  "  Araby  the 
blest"  to  those  who  remember  grandmother's  garden,  comes  a 
young  girl  with  a  basket  full  of  the  mints,  catnip  for  the  kitty, 
and  sage  and  sweet  marjoram. 

Outside  the  market  are  new  phases  of  interest  everywhere. 
A  clear,  triumphant  sound  breaks  upon  the  air.  It  is  the 
crow  of  chanticleer,  and  looking  about,  after  recovering  from 
the  first  surprise  of  hearing  a  barn-yard  echo  in  a  city  street, 
one  notices  several  rough  coops  containing  live  fowls.  Some 
of  these  are  putting  their  red-combed  heads  through  the  slats, 
and  gazing  about  in  a  very  inquiring  manner,  and  one  is  preen- 
ing her  feathers  as  if  to  be  in  gala  costume  for  the  sacrifice. 


32 


A  BOSTON  MARKET. 


These  fowls  are  bought  b}^  the  Orthodox  Jews,  w^hose  religion 
forbids  them  to  eat  meat  killed  by  aii}^  but  their  own  sect,  and 
it  is  no  uncommon  sight  to  see  a  woman  walking  away  from  the 
market,  carrying  under  her  arm  a  lively  and  very  surprised 
biddy,  whose  legs  have  been  securely  tied  together. 

But  where  do  the  fish-stalls  of  the  market  obtain  their  daih' 
supplies  ?  To  find  an  answer  to  that  question  one  must  walk 
to  the  wharf.  There  boats  are  coming  in  laden  with  the  fish, 
which  is  bought  on  the  spot  b}'  wholesale  dealers,  and  not  only 
supplied  to  various  local  markets,  but  also  packed  and  sent 
away  to  other  towns  and  cities. 

The  wharf  itself,  rather  slimy  with  fish-drippings,  is  made 
lively  by  men  running  about  with  large  hand-carts,  filled  with 
the  fish  which  they  have  just  obtained  from  the  boats.  • 

The  previous  process  of  loading  the  carts  is  a  rapid  and 
picturesque  one.  Large  baskets  of  cod  or  mackerel  are  filled 
on  board  the  little  boats,  swung  up  and  over  the  side  by  means 
of  a  rope,  and  dumped  into  the  cart.  The  man  who  fills  the 
basket  is  hardy  and  sailor-like,  clad  in  a  short  jacket  or  a 
colored  jersey,  and  the  motion  with  which  he  spears  several 
fish  at  a  time  on  a  small  fork  is  suggestive  of  the  hay-field. 

Other  boats  have  come  in  bringing  clams,  and  these  are 
shovelled  into  small  baskets,  dipped  in  water  to  be  rinsed,  and 
then  handed,  dripping,  to  the  wharf. 

Returning  to  the  market  proper,  we  shall  find  it  full  of 
bustle  and  interest  all  day  long.  The  marketnien  outside,  as 
soon  as  their  stock  is  sold,  drive  homeward,  sometimes  quite 
early,  but  often,  on  days  when  trade  is  slow,  not  until  late  in 
the  day. 

The  market  itself  closes  at  five  o'clock,  except  on  Saturday 
night,  when  it  is  open  until  nine.  A  gong  strikes  fifteen 
minutes  before  the  closing  hour  to  warn  the  keepers  of  stalls  to 
do  their  daily  cleaning  up,  and  when  it  strikes  again  its 
warning  note  embodies  the  old  nursery  rh3'me  : 

Home  again,  home  again,  market  is  done. 

AucE  Brown. 


A  Maple -Sugar  Camp 


Along  in  March  the  people  in  Vermont,  and  in  other  states 
where  the  sugar-maple  is  grown,  begin  to  look  for  what  they 
call  the  sugar-snow.  While  the  ground  is  vStill  white  and  the 
river  is  filled  with  broken  ice,  just  as  the  winter  is  ending  and 
the  earth  is  relaxing  from  its  frosty  thraldom,  the  soft  snow 
that  comes  helps  the  flow  of  sap,  and  hence  it  is  called  the 
sugar-snow,  and  is  welcomed  with  much  gladness  and  many 
preparations.  Sugar-snow  and  sugar-time  are  among  the  most 
delightful  experiences  in  the  year  to  young  people  in  the 
Green  Mountains. 

After  the  outbreak  of  the  Civil  War,  my  father  moved  from 
a  large  town  into  Vermont,  and  I  shall  never  forget  the 
excitement  which  prevailed  among  us  when  he  announced  one 
day  that  work  would  then  begin  in  the  sugar-place. 

There  were  four  of  us,  or,  counting  Tray,  the  dog,  five  ; 
and  I  don't  see  why  Tray  should  not  be  counted,  for  he  took  as 
much  interest  in  the  proceedings  as  any  of  us„  and  long  after- 
ward the  words  ' '  Sugar-place  !  ' '  would  always  rouse  him 
from  the  deepest  slumbers.  Only  one  other  word  ever  had  the 
same  effect  upon  him,  and  that  was  "  Woodchucks  !  " 

The  first  work  in  a  sugar-camp  is  to  scatter  the  buckets. 
The  farmer  goes  to  each  tree  with  his  bit,  and  bores  one,  two 
or  three  holes  through  the  bark.  Into  each  hole  he  inserts  a 
wooden  or  galvanized-iron  spout,  through  which  the  sap  flows 
into  the  buckets  suspended  below  it.  Thirty  years  ago  the 
buckets  and  spouts  were  all  of  wood,  but  they  have  been  super- 
seded by  tin  and  galvanized  iron,  which  are  cleaner  and 
more  economical. 

The  work  of  tapping  is  not  easy,  as  the  snow  is  usually 
very  deep  when  it  is  done.  A  large  sugar-place  in  Vermont, 
where  a  great  amount  of  maple-sugar  is  made,  contains  from 
one  thousand  to  three  thousand  trees,  and  a  place  with  less 


34 


A  MAPLE-SUGAK  CAMP. 


than  three  hundred  trees  is  called  a  small  one.  If  the  weather 
is  favorable,  that  is,  when  the  days  are  warm  and  the  nights 
frosty,  the  buckets  attached  to  the  trees  first  tapped  are  filled 
before  the  last  ones  have  been  bored,  and  their  contents  must 

be  boiled  at  once.  The  flow  is  some- 
times so  copious  that  the  men  have 
to  work  night  and  day  to  prevent  loss. 

The  sap  is  gathered  by  a  man  or 
boy  who  goes  to  the  buckets  and 
empties  them  into  large  pails  sus- 
pended from  a  sap-yoke  which  he 
wears  on  his  shoulders. 

When  there  is  a  good  crust  over 
the  snow  to  hold  him  up,  this  work  in 
the  bright  morning,  with  the  bluest 
of  skies  above,  is  not  unpleasant,  but 
when  the  orchard  is  large,  and  the 
snow  deep  and  soft,  and  he  has  been 
toiling  through  the  day  and  into  the 
darkening  night,  attending  to  the 
steady  drip,  drip,  drip  in  the  over- 
p  _         flowing  buckets,  he  is  apt  to  think 

that  sugar-time  is  not  so  jolly  after 

Gathering  Sap. 

all. 

Perhaps,  too,  he  does  not  feel  well  from  having  tasted  the 
sap  too  often.  It  is  so  delicious  as  it  comes  fresh  from  the  tree 
that  it  is  a  wonder  if  he  does  not  drink  too  much  of  it.  Some- 
times the  boy  is  relieved  by  having  a  team  of  horses  and  a 
sled,  on  which  a  tub  is  placed  to  receive  the  contents  of  the 
buckets. 

While  the  sap  is  being  gathered  the  boiling  must  be  kept 
up  continuously.  In  the  days  of  wooden  spouts  and  buckets 
the  sugar  was  made  in  a  great  iron  caldron,  suspended  by 
chains  over  a  fire  in  the  open  air.  As  the  fire  burned  and  the 
caldron  bubbled,  the  winds  made  free  contributions  of  dirt, 
twigs,  sand  and  smoke,  which  did  not  tend  to  improve  the 


A  MAPLEi-SUGAR  CAMP. 


35 


flavor  of  the  sugar.  Probably  most  of  the  sugar  made  in 
Vermont  would  hardly  be  marketable  to-day  if  it  were  made 
in  this  way. 

Now  sugar-houses  are  built,  containing  brick  or  stone 
arches,  with  sheet-iron  pans,  or  evaporators,  in  which  the 
sugar  is  boiled.  Being  kept  from  contact  with  anything  which 
is  not  strictly  clean,  it  is  purer  and  of  finer  grain  and  lighter 


A  Maple  Sugar  House. 


color  than  it  used  to  be.  When  the  sap  has  been  boiled  until 
the  water  has  nearly  all  passed  out  of  it  in  the  steam,  it  is 
strained  and  then  rapidly  boiled  until  it  grains  or  hardens  or 
changes  from  syrup  to  sugar. 

The  work  of  sugaring  off  in  the  old  caldron  made  a 
red-letter  day  for  the  children.    Provided  with  a  spoon  and 


36 


A  MAPI^E-SUGAR  CAMP. 


saucer,  or  a  wooden  paddle  made  especially  for  warm  sugar, 
each  boy  and  girl  would  set  out  over  snow-drifts  much  higher 
than  their  heads,  and  when  the  sugar  was  nearly  done  and 
would  lie  on  snow,  the  fun  began  in  good  earnest. 

Filling  their  saucers  with  the  sugar,  they  repaired  to  the 
nearest  clean  snow  and  spread  the  sugar  over  it  to  cool  before 
they  ate  it.  There  was  more  merriment  than  at  any  candy- 
pulling,  and  it  sometimes  happened  that  all  of  the  farmer's 
family  were  encamped  in  the  woods  to  help  in  the  work. 

On  one  occasion  old  Tray  learned  a  lesson  he  never  forgot. 
Always  ready  to  take  any  sugar  offered  him,  he  evidently 
considered  that  he  had  not  been  treated  often  enough,  and  took 
matters  in  his  own  —  paws. 

I  had  just  dropped  a  lot  of  the  hot  sugar  on  the  snow,  and 
while  waiting  for  it  to  cool  had  turned  my  back.  The  tempta- 
tion was  too  much  for  dog-nature,  and  like  the  Jackdaw  of 
Rheims,  "While  no  one  was  looking.  Tray  stepped  up  and 
twigged  it." 

When  his  teeth  shut  firmly  down  on  the  hardened  wax,  as 
the  sugar  was  called,  he  could  not  open  his  mouth  again.  He 
scraped  with  his  paws,  ran  round  and  round,  and  rolled  over 
and  over,  but  no  relief  came ;  and  worst  of  all,  his  most 
intimate  and  loved  companions  stood  laughing  at  his 
misfortune.  He  could  only  sit  up  and  wait  for  his  lockjaw  to 
melt.  Never  after  that  would  he  eat  the  before  coveted  wax, 
and  he  always  showed  that  he  took  it  as  an  insult  to  have  it 
offered  to  him. 

When  I  went  to  the  old  schoolhouse  of  our  district,  I  was 
proud  to  find  in  my  geography  that  Vermont  produced  more 
maple-sugar  than  any  other  state  in  the  Union. 

Some  few  farmers,  instead  of  making  the  sugar,  make 
delicious  maple-honey,  and,  sealing  it  up  in  bottles,  send  it  to 
the  great  hotels  in  the  cities.  One  way  or  another  a  farmer 
with  a  large  sugar-place  in  Vermont  makes  a  good  deal  of 
money  from  it  every  year. 

Ruth  Russ. 


A  New  Hampshire  Fish -Farm. 


Fish-farming,  or  the  breeding  of  fish  by  artificial  means,  is 
a  comparatively  new  industry,  and  as  the  reader  probably 
knows,  its  object  is  the  stocking  of  rivers  with  salmon  and 
trout.  Early  attention  was  given  to  it  in  New  Hampshire,  and 
there  was  opened  a  free  passage  from  the  ocean  to  the  very 
heart  of  the  Franconia  Mountains  through  the  Merrimac  and 
the  Pemigewasset  Rivers. 

Fishways  have  been  constructed  in  these  rivers  to  enable 
the  fish  to  ascend.  A  fishway  is  a  spout  or  aqueduct  designed 
to  overcome  the  steep  ascent  from  the  head  of  a  dam  to  the  bed 
of  a  river  which  would  baffle  the  fish  in  its  progress,  and  it  is 
so  divided  by  partitions  that  the  pilgrim  from  the  ocean  can 
make  his  upward  journey  and  rest  from  time  to  time  in  favoring 
eddies  instead  of  being  exhausted  in  a  struggle  with  the  abrupt 
fall.    There  is  an  excellent  reason 


for  helping  him  on  his  way  as  much 
as  possible. 

Salmon  begin  to  ascend  the 
streams  about  the  first  of  June,  and 
the}^  make  a  holiday  of  the  summer, 
sporting  in  the  eddies  and  shady 
nooks,  and  playing  in  the  rapids. 
Late  in  the  autumn  when  they  are 
paired,  each  couple  selects  some 
spot  in  the  coarse  sand  or  gravelly 


bottom,  and  in  a  hole   therein  the  ^      ^  . 

'  Young  Salmon. 

female  deposits  her  eggs.   The  male 

hovers  about  the  spot  and  helps  her  in  covering  the  eggs  with 
sand  and  gravel  to  a  depth  of  six  to  ten  inches. 

This  operation  being  complete,  the  happy  couple  return  to 
their  winter  quarters  in  the  ocean,  leaving  their  progeny  to 
hatch,  wriggle  and  wash  out  of  the  nursery  as  best  they  may. 


38 


A  NEW  HAMPSHIRK  FlSH-:PARM. 


In  the  natural  process  very  large  numbers  of  eggs  are  destro}- ed 
by  various  causes,  and  probably  not  more  than  fifteen  per  cent, 
of  them  come  to  life  ;  but  by  the  artificial  process,  the  New 
Hampshire  Fish  Commission  has  for  a  series  of  years  obtained 
from  ninety  to  ninety-five  per  cent. 

In  connection  with  the  hatchery  is  a  trout-pond  for  the 
preservation  of  breeders,  and  a  pond  for  the  reception  of  salmon 
taken  while  on  their  way  to  the  mountains.    A  kind  of  trap 


called  a  weir  is  made  of  poles,  brush  and  netting,  from  which 
the  salmon  are  scooped  out  with  hand-nets,  and  carried  in 
boats  made  for  the  purpose,  to  the  breeding  ponds. 

Ivate  in  autumn,  the  fish  that  have  been  captured  during 
the  summer  season  and  held  prisoners  in  the  reception  pond 
are  closely  watched  to  ascertain  when  they  are  ready  to  spawn. 
As  soon  as  detected  in  the  natural  process  of  preparing  a  bed 
in  which  to  deposit  eggs,  they  are  carefully  taken  by  means 
of  a  net,  and  when  their  eggs  have  been  secured,  they  are 
turned  loose  in  the  river  to  make  their  way  back  to  salt  water. 

The  hatching-house  is  a  comparatively  inexpensive  building  ; 
it  is  long,  low-studded  and  double- walled,  the  space  between 


In  a  Salmon  Weir. 


A  NKW  HAMPvSHIRK  FISH-FARM. 


39 


the  two  walis  being  packed  with  sawdust  to  prevent  the  water 
inside  from  freezing. 

The  water  is  brought  in  a  large  iron  pipe  from  a  spring, 
and  distributed  to  each  of  the  six  hatching-troughs  ])y  faucets, 
which  regulate  the  supply.  The  troughs  are  ten  inches  wide 
by  six  deep,  extending  nearly  the  entire  length  of  the  building  ; 
and  they  are  arranged  on  trestles  to  allow  the  water  to  flow 
with  a  gentle  current  from  the  upper  end  to  the  lower,  and 
thence  off  into  a  w^aste-pipe. 

In  each  trough  is  a  series  of  hatching-boxes,  which  may  be 
described  as  square,  shallow  sieves,  made  by  fastening  small 
wire  screens  for  a  bottom,  to  a  frame  a  foot  long,  and  wide 
enough  to  just  fill  the  trough  crosswise.  A  free  current  of 
water  flows  through  the  sieves  over,  under  and  among  the 
eggs,  which  are  deposited  and  spread  upon  the  wire  screens. 

The  eggs  are  spherical  in  shape,  nearly  the  size  of  a 
common  pea,  of  a  delicate  pink  color,  and  transparent  enough 
to  show  the  eyes  of  the  embryo  salmon.  About  three  months' 
time  is  required  for  hatching  them. 

Of  all  frail  forms  of  life,  the  young  salmon,  just  hatched, 
exceeds  in  interest  anything  the  writer  remembers  having  seen. 
A  casual  observer  would  notice  the  cast-off  shells,  and  would 
think  he  also  saw  as  many  eggs  as  before.  What  appear  to  be 
eggs  are,  in  fact,  yolk  sacks,  or  in  other  words,  provision  bags, 
with  the  outer  shell  cast  off,  each  sack  with  its  little  salmon 
attached  just  below  and  behind  where  the  gills  are  to  be. 

Looking  sharp  we  detect  two  little  black  specks  with  a 
hair  line  extending  from  between  them,  for  half  an  inch  or  so. 
These  little  black  specks  and  the  hair  line  are  the  eyes  and  the 
backbone  of  a  salmon,  which  in  the  course  of  eight  years, 
perhaps,  if  nothing  befalls,  will  weigh  twenty-five  pounds,  and 
measure  three  feet  in  length. 

This  extremely  slight  trace  of  creation  is  enveloped  in  a 
body  of  liquid  so  transparent  and  perfectly  clear  that  in  the 
space  of  a  few  days  a  complete  set  of  ribs  can  be  seen  starting 
out  from  the  backbone  and  gradually  gathering  into  the  form 


40 


A  NEW  HAMPvSHIKK  KISH-FARM. 


of  a  fish.  Ill  the  course  of  a  week  something  like  a  head  and 
tail  appear  and  the  thing  begins  to  wriggle. 

It  has  not  yet  got  strength  to  move  its  yolk  sack,  which 
remains  exactly  where  it  was  when  hatched.  By  and  by  the 
transparent  liquid,  which  encloses  the  lively  little  framework, 

begins  to  have  a 
cloudy  look  along 
the  backbone,  and 
by  a  tremendous 
wriggle,  the  em- 
bryo succeeds  in 
starting  its  yolk 
sack  just  a  hair's 
breadth.  Then  it 
takes  a  rest,  and 
wriggles  again, 
making  another 
advance. 
During  the  second 
week  it  develops  rapidly, 
the  sack  growing  smaller 
and  the  fish  larger.  The 
liquid  has  hidden  the 
framework  from  sight 
now,  and  is  gradually 
solidifying.  At  the  end 
of  three  weeks  the  yolk 
sack  is  all  absorbed  in  the 
bod}',  and  it  is  time  for 
the  perfect  little  creature 
to  get  its  nourivShnient 
from  the  surrounding  element,  the  water.  The  young  salmon 
are  now  considered  capable  of  caring  for  themselves,  and  are 
turned  loose  in  the  river,  or  conveyed  to  such  other  streams 
as  it  is  thought  desirable  to  stock. 

M.  Hawks. 


The  Hatching -Troughs. 


Among  the  Pines. 

Maine  has  been  very  properly  called  the  Pine  Tree  State, 
for  it  is  in  her  almost  exhaustless  pine  forests  that  she  finds 
one  of  her  sources  of  wealth  and  commercial  importance. 
Although  spruce  and  hemlock  have  been  gradually  taking  the 
place  of  the  pine  in  the  lumber  trade,  yet  there  are  still  va.st, 
unexplored  tracts  stretching  far  away  toward  Canada,  where 
this  noble  tree  still  flourishes  in  all  its  old-time  grandeur  and 
luxuriance.  Early  in  the  fall,  sometimes  by  the  first  or  middle  of 
October,  the  advance  guards  of  the  lumber  crews,  each  con- 
sisting of  some  half  a  dozen  men,  start  for  the  forests  where 
their  employers'  claims  are  situated. 

They  select  a  place  as  near  as  possible  tO'  one  of  the  small 
streams  that  thread  this  vast  lumber  region  in  every  direction, 
and  build  the  camp  that  is  to  serve  them  and  their  comrades 
for  a  shelter  during  the  long,  cold  winter  that  is  at  hand. 

A  hut,  proportioned  to  the  size  of  the  crew  that  is  to 
occupy  it,  is  built  of  large  logs,  carefully  notched  and  fitted  at 
the  corners,  and  chinked  with  moss  and  clay.  A  stone  fireplace 
is  built  in  one  corner,  and  bunks  for  the  men  are  placed 
against  the  wall  and  filled  with  the  fragrant  tips  of  pine  boughs 
to  serve  as  beds. 

The  roof  is  made  of  long,  split  shingles,  fastened  down 
with  long  poles  instead  of  being  nailed,  and  finally  covered  with 
spruce  boughs,  which,  after  the  first  fall  of  snow,  keep  out  the 
wind  and  frosts  very  effectually.  The  earlier  camps  used  to 
have  only  the  hard-trodden  earth  for  floors,  and  their  inmates 
got  along  without  such  conveniences  as  tables,  plates,  etc.,  but 
now  they  are  provided  not  only  with  plank  floors,  but  a  table 
with  a  suitable  supply  of  crockery  is  in  most  cases  provided,  as 
part  of  the  woodman's  necessary  outfit. 

Near  the  hut  of  the  loggers  another  is  constructed  with 
much  care,  to  make  it  as  comfortable  as  possible  for  the  duml) 


42 


AMONG  THK  PINEvS. 


companions  of  their  winter's  toil,  the  patient,  plodding  oxen  or 
the  quicker  horses.  By  the  time  everything  is  ready  for  their 
reception  the  tote  teams  make  their  appearance  with  the  cattle 
and  the  supply  of  food  that  is  to  serve  them  all  during  the 
winter.    Flour,  pork,  beans,  molasses  and  tea  are  the  staples. 

Sometimes  a  barrel  of  corned  beef  finds  its  way  into  the 
camp,  but  as  a  rule  the  diet  of  the  men  consists  of  hot  flour 
bread,  with  pork  fat  for  a  relish,  and  tea  without  milk, 
sweetened  with  molasses. 

These,  with  the  indispensable  dish  of  baked  beans,  cooked 
to  perfection  in  a  bean-hole  dug  in  the  earth  and  lined  with  hot 
stones,  form  luxurious  fare  to  appetites  sharpened  by  hard 
work  in  the  cold,  frost}^  air  of  midwinter. 

Sometimes  a  lucky  shot  may  bring  down  a  moose,  or  an 
equally  lucky  find  may  put  them  in  possession  of  enough 
bear-meat  to  make  every  day  a  feast-day  for  a  week  or  two. 
The  fat  of  the  bear  is  said  to  be  very  delicate  and  sweet  to  the 
taste,  and  is  much  prized  by  hunters  and  lumbermen.  In  it 
they  fry  their  favorite  dainty,  the  Yankee  doughnuts. 

A  crew  generally  consists  of  a  boss,  who  takes  the  charge 
of  affairs,  allots  the  work  and  sees  that  it  is  faithfully 
performed  by  the  choppers,  swampers,  teamster  and  cook. 

The  boss  decides  upon  the  best  place  to  commence 
operations,  and  then  all  hands  clear  a  road  from  that  spot  to 
the  stream,  so  that  when  the  snow  comes  there  will  be  a 
comparatively  smooth  and  level  roadway  for  the  teams  to  drag 
their  ponderous  loads  over  during  the  winter. 

Commencing  his  work  with  the  earliest  gleams  of  daylight, 
the  sturdy,  strong-armed  chopper  plies  his  axe,  stopping  only 
for  a  hasty  dinner  at  twelve,  until  the  ghostl}^  shadows  of 
twilight  fall  upon  him  from  between  the  dusky  tree-trunks, 
and  the  evening  star,  far  above  in  the  blue,  wintry  sky,  seems 
resting  like  a  glowing  gem  upon  the  topmost  spire  of  the  giant 
pine  above  his  head. 

Then  the  weary  worker  turns  his  steps  campward,  where  a 
blazing  fire  and  a  hot  supper  soon  make  him  forget  the  cold 


AMONG  THK  PINKS. 


43 


and  fatigue  of  the  day  ;  while  in  the  companionship  of  his 
mates  he  finds  the  mental  stimulus  that  binds  him  to  the 
half-forgotten  world  outside  his  own  forest  solitudes. 

Besides  the  hard  work,  there  is  always  more  or  less  danger 
in  felling  these  mighty  trees.    The  experienced,  chopper  can 


A  Camp  in  Winter. 


easily  detect  by  the  motion  of  the  swaying  trunk  in  what 
direction  it  is  about  to  fall,  and  he  makes  his  retreat  accord- 
ingly ;  but  as  the  enormous  branches  go  crashing  down 
through  the  tops  of  the  smaller  trees,  they  are  often  broken 
and  hurled  through  the  air,  crushing  whatever  lies  in  their 
track,    occasionally   wounding    and    sometimes    killing  the 


44 


AMONG  THE  PINKvS. 


luckless  chopper,  whose  skill  in  woodcraft  proved  insufficient 
to  shield  him  from  this  unexpected  danger. 

The  tallest  trees  are  usually  sawed  at  the  landing  into  logs 
of  a  convenient  length  for  the  drive,  which  begins  as  soon  as 
the  spring  sun  has  acquired  power  to  melt  the  immense  masses 
of  snow  and  ice  that  cover  the  hillsides.  Then  every  little 
brook  is  swelled  to  a  raging  torrent,  into  whose  eager  embrace 
the  logs  are  hurried,  and  the  perilous  and  exciting  work  of  the 
river-driver  begins. 

From  lakes  and  tributary  streams  the  logs  are  driven  into 
the  main  river,  where  they  form  one  indistinguishable  mass 
called  the  main  drive.  The  different  crews  now  vie  with  each 
other  in  deeds  of  agility  and  daring,  and  it  is  wonderful  to  note 
the  skill  and  promptness  with  which  these  men,  scorning 
danger  and  discomfort,  manage  to  keep  those  millions  of 
rolling  logs  in  the  main  channel  of  the  river. 

Without  a  dry  thread  of  clothing  for  many  days  and  nights 
in  succession,  the  river-driver  knows  neither  rest  by  day  nor 
ease  by  night. 

Sometimes  the  boat  containing  the  supplies  fails  to  reach 
the  stopping-place  for  the  night  in  advance  of  the  crew,  and 
then  the  poor  fellows,  cold  and  wet  as  they  are,  must  lie  down 
hungry  and  shelterless  upon  the  bare  ground,  to  snatch  such 
rest  as  they  may  find  in  their  comfortless  quarters. 

With  the  soles  of  his  boots  armed  with  sharp  spikes  to  keep 
him  from  slipping  on  the  wet,  smooth  logs,  and  a  setting-pole, 
with  which  to  guide  them  and  steady  his  own  steps,  the  river- 
driver  considers  himself  fairly  equipped  for  the  toils  and 
dangers  awaiting  him. 

In  a  narrow  channel  between  high  banks,  or  at  the  head  of 
a  fall,  the  logs  are  apt  to  form  what  is  called  a  jam,  that  is,  one 
or  more  logs  chance  to  strike  across  the  stream  in  such  a  way 
as  to  obstruct  the  passage,  so  that  those  pressing  on  behind, 
unable  to  pass,  are  piled  high  one  above  another  in  the  most 
inextricable  confusion. 

To  break  one  of  these  jams  is  a  difficult  and  almost  always 


AMONG  THK  PINKvS. 


45 


dangerous  task,  as  the  operator  must  in  many  cases  cut  away 
with  his  axe  one  or  more  of  the  obstructing  logs,  thus  letting 
the  whole  mighty  mass  loose  in  an  instant,  and  giving  him 
little  time  to  escape  from  the  terrible  onslaught. 

Sometimes  when  the  banks  are  high  and  the  channel  very 
narrow,  it  is  necessary  to  let  a  man  down  from  the  top  by  a 
rope  to  perform  the  dangerous  task  ;  and  if  he  escapes  with 
only  a  few  bruises  and  scratches  he  may  consider  himself  very 
fortunate,  since  the  parting  of  the  rope,  or  the  failure  of  his 
comrades  to  draw  him  up  at  the  ver}^  instant  that  the  jam 
starts,  might  be  death  swift  and  sure,  without  any  possibility 
of  rescue. 

When  at  length  the  logs  reach  their  destination  they  are 
enclosed  in  a  boom.  This  is  simply  a  floating  fence  of  large 
logs,  fastened  together  so  strongly  that  their  wild  brethren, 
fresh  from  the  forests,  cannot  escape  from  their  restraining  arms. 

And  now  it  is  the  duty  of  the  boom-master  to  see  that  each 
owner  has  his  own  logs  assigned  to  him  fairly  and  justly. 
Every  man's  logs  are  marked  by  some  kind  of  hieroglyphic  cut 
deep  into  each  log  by  the  axe  of  the  loader. 

If  any  log,  either  by  carelessness  or  accident,  has  reached 
the  boom  unmarked,  it  becomes  the  property  of  the  boom- 
master,  who  is  also  entitled  to  a  certain  proportion  of  the 
lumber,  as  his  share  for  the  care  and  labor  of  harborage  and 
distribution  of  the  whole. 

It  seems  a  tame  ending  to  all  this  wild  turmoil,  this  dumb 
exhibition  of  unloosened  savagery,  to  see  the  poor  logs  at  last 
floating  meekly  down  to  the  sawmills,  where 

Steam,  the  slave,  shall  tear  them  with  his  teeth  of  steel, 

carve  them  into  plain,  commonplace  boards  and  staves,  that 
shall,  in  time,  lose  even  the  fragrant  breath  that  alone  reminds 
one  of  their  forest  origin,  and  hidden  beneath  a  coat  of 
paint  and  varnish,  make  comfortable  or  beautify  the  homes 
of  civilization. 

Mrs.  H.  G.  Rowe. 


A  Winter  Harvest, 


The  traveller  who,  on  a  pleasant  midsummer  day,  ascends 
the  Kennebec  River  in  Maine  for  the  first  time,  is  likely  to  be 
much  interested  in  the  signs,  which  appear  as  soon  as  his  boat 
has  passed  from  salt  water  into  fresh,  of  a  great  industry  which 
evidently  surpasses  all  others  in  importance  thereabout. 

At  frequent  inter^^als  upon  the  Kennebec  are  seen  great 
wooden  structures.  Some  of  these  have  wide-spreading 
gambrel  or  curb  roofs,  and  are  picturesque  objects  in  the 
landscape  ;  others  are  simply  vast  barracks  of  rough  planks 
and  boards,  unpleasant  and  disfiguring  to  the  shores  of  the 
broad  river.  All  of  these  are  ice-houses,  and  they  are  the 
depositaries  of  the  great  ice-harvest  of  the  Kennebec. 

In  midsummer,  scarcely  less  than  in  the  latter  half  of 
winter,  these  great  houses  are  a  scene  of  activity.  Schooners 
are  brought  to  their  very  doors  by  tugs,  and  there  are  seen 
lading  with  great  blocks  of  clear,  blackish-green  ice.  From 
each  of  the  ice-houses  a  long  and  slightly  inclined  plane  leads 
down  to  the  light  wooden  wharf  where  the  vessel  lies  ;  and 
down  this  smooth  incline  a  continuous  line  of  blocks  of  ice, 
urged  on  by  men  and  boys  with  picks,  is  descending. 

The  Kennebec  River  is  a  great  centre  of  the  ice-cutting 
business  because,  joined  with  a  snug  winter  climate  which 
makes  ice  a  tolerably  sure  crop,  it  has  a  great  stretch  of 
navigable  fresh  water.  Clear  ice  may  be  cut  here  over  the 
very  spot  where  ocean  vessels  may  moor  the  next  summer  and 
load  it,  to  be  taken  directly  to  the  cities  on  the  coast  farther 
south . 

Perhaps  the  business  of  harvesting  ice  on  a  great  Maine 
river  comes  nearer  to  the  fabled  plucking  of  apples  of  gold 
from  the  trees  in  the  garden  of  the  Hesperides  than  anything 
else  in  modern  practical  industry.  The  ice,  to  begin  with,  is 
Nature's  gift  to  everybody.    There  is  no  property  in  it,  no 


A  WINTKR  HARVKvST. 


47 


ownership  of  it  by  any  one,  until  it  has  been  marked  out  to 
cut ;  and  any  one  may  do  that,  and  possess  the  ice,  if  he  is 
able  to  cut  it  afterward. 

But  this  free  gift  of  Nature  brings  to  the  inhabitants  of  the 
Kennebec  River,  along  the  twenty-five  miles  from  Augusta, 
where  there  is  a  dam,  down  below  the  foot  of  Swan  Island, 
where  the  water  begins  to  be  brackish,  a  yearly  income  of  from 


one  to  four  millions  of  dollars,  according  to  the  price  for  which 
they  sell  their  crop  of  a  million  to  a  million  and  a  half  tons 
of  ice. 

To  the  Kennebecker,  therefore,  the  winter  is  the  real 
harvest-time.  That  is  the  season  when  fortunes  are  most 
readily  acquired  by  the  enterprising,  and  employment 
most  easily  found  by  those  who  need  it. 

An  ice-claim  must  be  marked  out  anew  each  year,  and 
preempted  over  again  as  often  as  the  ice  melts  away.  On 
the  Kennebec,  as  soon  as  the  ice  is  strong  enough  to  bear 
a  man,  the  claim  is  staked  out  by  setting  bushes  or  stakes 
in  the  ice,  or  often,  where  it  is  very  systematically  done,  by 
setting  in  joists  with  boards  nailed  across  them. 


Loading  the  Ice-Schooner. 


48 


A  WINTER  HARVEST. 


The  construction  of  an  ice-house  on  the  bank  carries  with 
it,  in  practice,  the  right  to  cut  the  ice  on  the  river  in  front  of 
it ;  and  as  the  ice  could  not  be  secured  without  an  ice-house  in 
which  to  store  it,  only  those  who  are  able  to  get  a  foothold  on 
the  land  can  gather  the  ice-harvest,  theoretically  free  to  all. 

There  is  nothing  to  do,  after  the  claim  is  marked  out,  until 
the  ice  has  become  thick  enough  to  carry  a  horse,  so  that  the 
snow  may  be  scraped  off  as  fast  as  it  falls.  Ice  will  not  make 
rapidly  under  snow,  and  will  not  attain  its  full  thickness.  The 
iceman's  most  anxious  time  is  when  there  is  danger  of  a 
snowfall  on  the  ice  before  it  is  strong  enough  to  bear  horses  to 
scrape  it. 

If  the  snow  steals  a  march  on  the  scrapers  in  this  way, 
it  is  often  necessary  to  get  rid  of  it  by  a  very  laborious  and 
expensive  process.  A  hole  is  cut  through  the  ice,  and  the 
snow  saturated  with  water.  When  this  freezes  the  ice  will 
bear  a  horse  ;  but  the  worthless  snow-ice  thus  formed  must  be 
planed  off,  also  by  horse-power,  with  a  planer  made  for  the 
purpose.  The  scraping  and  planing  is  called  cultivating  the 
ice,  and  it  is  generally  a  very  expensive  sort  of  cultivation. 
A  single  night  may  caUvSe  the  icemen  an  expense  of  five  or  six 
thousand  dollars  in  the  cost  of  the  removal  of  a  heavy  snowfall. 

The  iceman's  crop  is  nearly  ripe  when  clear  ice  has  formed 
to  a  thickness  of  twelve  inches,  and  then  the  preparations  are 
made  for  the  harvest. 

From  the  point  on  the  shore  where  the  elevator  leading  to 
the  ice-house  reaches  the  brink,  a  canal  from  five  to  twenty 
feet  wide,  according  to  the  magnitude  of  the  business,  is 
opened  out  into  the  river,  through  which  the  blocks  of  ice  are 
presently  to  be  floated  to  the  house. 

It  must  be  kept  clear  as  long  as  the  ice-harvest  continues, 
no  matter  how  many  degrees  below  zero  the  mercury  may  fall. 
In  the  day,  the  constant  moving  of  ice-blocks  through  the 
water  suffices  to  keep  the  channel  open.  At  night,  in  freezing 
weather,  the  necessity  gives  rise  to  one  of  the  coldest  and  most 
lonesome  occupations  that  one  can  imagine. 


A  WINTER  HARVEST. 


49 


Armed  with  a  great  triangle  of  heavy  pieces  of  wood,  which 
he  drags  through  the  water,  a  man  marches  up  and  down  the 
channel  all  night  long,  crushing  and  scattering  the  thin  sheets 
of  ice  with  his  triangle  as  fast  as  they  form.  The  workman 
to  whom  this  cheerless  task  falls  must  be  heartily  glad  that 
the  gray  wolves  no  longer  make  the  frozen  Kennebec  a 
thoroughfare. 

With  the  opening  of  the  canal  comes  an  interesting  result 
at  once.    The  thickness  of  the  ice  is  increased  by  the  exposure 


The  Harvest  in  Progress. 


of  the  water  and  the  cooling  of  its  surface.  The  cold  is  let  into 
the  river,  as  it  were,  both  below  and  above  the  cut.  By  the 
time  all  this  has  been  done,  the  middle  of  January  has  generally 
been  reached.    The  date  varies,  of  course,  with  the  season. 

The  ice  has  now  a  thickness  of  from  twelve  to  eighteen 
inches.  Sometimes  it  is  even  thicker  than  that  ;  but  a 
thickness  of  more  than  eighteen  inches  is  a  disadvantage, 
because  it  renders  the  blocks  of  ice  hard  to  bar  off  from  the 
field.  Now  the  field  is  carefully  marked  off,  with  a  grooving 
machine  drawn  by  a  horse,  into  regular  parallelograms,  which 
are  generally  twenty-two  by  thirty  inches  square,  the  size 
which  the  individual  blocks  of  ice  are  to  have. 


50 


A  WINTER  HARVEvST. 


The  ice-fiel^,  unlike  other  fields,  is  cultivated  before  it  is 
plowed.  It  is  only  now,  when  the  marker  has  grooved  the  ice 
across  and  across,  that  the  ice-plow  is  brought,  or  rather  that 
several  ice-plows  are  brought,  for  several  go  over  the  same 
ground  in  succession. 

A  plow  which  cuts  to  a  depth  of  six  inches  first  follows 
the  marker's  grooves.  Then  comes  another,  which  cuts  two 
inches  deeper,  and  then  another,  cutting  still  deeper,  and  so  on 
until  the  trenches  have  been  carried  so  deep  that  the  blocks  of 
ice  may  be  barred  off  or  loosened  from  the  field. 

Beginning  at  the  outermost  end  of  the  canal,  and  working 
out  at  right  angles  with  it  as  far  as  the  field  has  been  marked, 
the  workmen  break  off,  with  a  heavy  wedge-shaped  instrument 
called  a  bursting  bar,  sheets  or  sections  of  blocks  of  ice,  making 
a  new  channel  running  off  from  the  original  canal. 

Through  this  channel  the  sheets  of  ice  are  forced,  by  means 
of  hooks,  to  the  main  canal,  and  thence  to  the  foot  of  the 
elevator  which  runs  to  the  ice-house. 

At  this  point  a  narrow  bridge  of  planks  is  thrown  across  the 
canal,  upon  which  is  posted  a  man  armed  with  an  iron  bar. 
Standing  with  his  face  toward  the  shore,  this  man  separates 
the  sheets  of  ice  into  single  blocks,  with  quick  blows  of  his 
bar,  as  they  float  beneath  him. 

With  a  quick  push  this  man  thrusts  each  block  over 
revolving  chains  upon  the  elevator.  These  chains  are 
provided  with  lags  or  straight  bars  of  wood,  and  the  block 
is  drawn  up  the  inclined  plane  into  the  ice-house  by  the 
continual  movement  of  the  elevator. 

There  is  here  an  ingenious  but  very  simple  arrangement  by 
means  of  which  the  blocks  of  ice  are  left  at  the  proper  place. 
At  the  level  of  the  floor  of  the  ice-house  is  a  pocket  or  open 
space  in  the  floor  of  the  elevator,  through  which  the  ice  passes. 
When  it  is  desired  to  carry  the  cakes  higher,  the  pocket  or 
hole  is  closed  with  boards,  and  the  ice  intelligently  keeps  on 
to  the  next  pocket  above. 

In  the  house,  the  blocks  of  ice  are  placed  close  together  on 


A  WINTKR  HARVEST. 


51 


their  sides,  and  left  three  or  four  inches  apart  at  the  ends,  so 
that  they  will  not  freeze  together  with  the  melting  and  freezing 
to  come.  • 

The  crop  is  harvested  now  ;  and  if  the  iceman  has  had  a 
fairly  fortunate  season,  he  has  garnered  at  least  a  thousand 
tons  to  the  acre.  Not  unfrequently  the  crop  reaches  thirteen 
hundred  tons  to  the  acre. 

The  river  is  at  its  busiest  in  February,  but  the  opening  of 
navigation  brings  another  busy  season.  All  summer  long 
schooners  and  barges,  under  tow,  ply  up  and  down,  lading  at 
the  ice- wharves.  The  blocks  of  ice  are  sent  down  the  runway 
to  the  vessel's  side,  and  there  lowered  into  her  hold. 

Machinery  is  used  here,  too,  as  far  as  possible.  A  lowering 
winch  is  placed  at  the  hatchway  of  the  vessel,  and  the  ice  is 
lowered  by  the  aid*of  ropes  and  pulleys.  The  workers  in 
the  ice-harvest  are  frequently  farmers  and  their  sons  from  the 
country  lying  back  from  the  river.  Often  the  ice-workers  are 
engaged  in  the  sawmills  in  the  summer  season. 

A  man  who  is  industriously  disposed  may  manage  to  work 
pretty  hard  the  year  round  on  the  Kennebec.  So  may  a  horse, 
for  that  matter,  for  the  same  animal  that  pulls  the  scraper  and 
the  ice-plow  pulls  the  land-plow,  the  harrow  and  the  mowing- 
machine  later  on.  But  continuous  industry  seems  to  be 
congenial,  both  to  men  and  to  animals,  in  the  stimulating 
climate  of  Maine. 

Thus  a  crop  which  costs  nothing  for  seed,  nothing  for  the 
ground  to  raise  it  upon  and  nothing  to  fertilize,  but  a  good 
deal  to  cultivate  and  still  more  to  harvest,  becomes  a  source  of 
wealth  to  many,  and  of  profitable  employment  to  many  more. 

J.  E.  Chambrrlin. 


Moose  -  Calling. 


The  moose  is  a  noble  beast,  and  an}^  form  of  honest  hunting 
for  him  through  the  deep  solitudes  of  the  north  woods  is  full  of 
keen  interest  and  enjoyment.  But  moose-calling  stands  alone 
in  the  hunter's  mind,  the  most  exciting,  the  most  disappoint- 
ing, the  most  dangerous  method  of  hunting  in  New  England. 

Other  forms  of  hunting  moose  are  more  attractive  in  many 
ways,  but  I  doubt  if  the  hunter's  nerves  ever  again  thrill  with 
quite  the  same  sensations  that  sw^ept  over  him  that  first  night 
when  he  stood  by  a  little  opening  in  the  forest,  with  the 
solitude  and  utter  loneliness  of  the  wilderness  about  him,  and 
heard  the  deep  silence  suddenl}'-  broken  by  an  angry  roar, 
and  then  the  crashing  advance  of  the  great  ugly  brute  rushing 
straight  down  upon  him  out  of  the  dark  woods. 

Tracking  through  the  first  snows  requires  strength  and 
patience  and  cunning  ;  and  one  has,  beside  the  excitement  of 
the  hunt,  the  beauty  of  the  winter  woods,  and  the  peace  and 
restfulness  of  the  night-camp.  Tracking  is  warmer  and  much 
more  comfortable  every  way  than  waiting  perfectly  motionless, 
without  daring  even  to  swing  the  fingers  or  stamp  the  toes,  out 
of  which  the  autumn  frost  is  slowly  chilling  the  life  ;  but  it 
lacks  the  tremendous  impressiveness  of  the  night,  and  the 
swift,  fierce  thrill  of  the  bull's  answer  and  his  savage  rush. 

The  same  may  be  said  of  still-hunting,  or  creeping,  as  the 
Indians  call  it.  In  tracking  or  still-hunting  one  is  following  a 
timid  animal  that,  unless  wounded  or  headed,  dashes  off  in 
a  swinging  trot  at  the  first  sniff  of  danger. 

When  moose  begin  to  mate  in  September,  an  old  bull  grows 
savage  and  uncertain  of  temper  ;  it  is  never  safe,  day  or  night, 
to  approach  him  carelessly.  The  call  may  only  alarm  him, 
and  send  him  off  into  deeper  solitudes  ;  but  it  is  just  as  likely 
to  throw  him  into  a  rage  that  brings  him  crashing  down  to 
attack  at  sight  the  first  living  thing  that  opposes  him. 


MOOSE-CALLING. 


53 


And  so  there  is  always  the  added  charm  of  uncertainty  and 
danger  about  it.  As  for  torching  and  crusting  and  murdering 
the  poor  animals  in  their  yards,  where  deep  snows  have 
imprisoned  them,  after  taking  their  portraits  with  a  kodak,  as 
so-called  sportsmen  do  nowadays,  they  are  abominable,  all  of 
them.  No  decent  hunter,  unless  driven  by  hunger,  will  have 
part  or  parcel  with  those  who  use  them. 

The  call  of  the  cow  moose,  which  the  hunter  always  uses 
first,  is  a  low,  sudden  bellow,  quite  impossible  to  describe 
accurately.  It  breaks  out  of  the  woods  and  is  gone  so 
suddenly  as  to  leave  one  simply  surprised,  with  no  accurate 
impressions.  Before  hearing  it  I  had  frequently  asked  Indians 
and  hunters  what  it  was  like  ;  the  answers  were  rather  unsat- 
isfactory. Like  a  tree  falling,  like  a  cow,  like  the  swell  of  a 
cataract  or  the  rapids  at  night,  like  a  rifle-shot,  or  a  man 
shouting  —  these  were  some  of  the  answers,  till  one  supposed 
it  must  sound  something  like  a  menagerie  at  feeding-time. 

One  night,  as  I  sat  with  my  friend  before  our  bark  tent 
eating  our  belated  supper  in  tired  silence,  while  the  rush  of  the 
salmon  pool  near  and  the  soughing  of  the  wind  among 
the  spruce  tops  were  making  our  eyelids  heavy  as  we  ate,  a 
sound  suddenly  filled  the  forest  and  was  gone.  Strangely 
enough,  we  pronounced  the  word  "  Moose  !  "  together,  though 
neither  of  us  had  ever  heard  the  sound  before. 

lyike  a  gun  in  a  fog  might,  perhaps,  head  the  list  of  similes, 
though  after  hearing  the  sound  several  times,  I  am  still  at  a 
loss  to  describe  it.  No  two  animals  ever  bellow  precisely 
alike,  and  the  thick  trees  break  up  the  vibrations,  making 
the  sound  still  more  vague,  which  accounts,  perhaps,  for  the 
variety  of  description.  A  single  low,  indefinite  bellow  is 
heard  early  in  the  mating  season.  Later  it  is  more  prolonged 
and  definite,  and  often  repeated  twice  in  quick  succession. 

The  best  hunter  I  ever  met  used  a  short  and  abrupt  call, 
uttered  with  the  accent  at  the  end,  and  a  quick  roll  of  his  head 
as  he  uttered  it.  After  a  second's  interval  he  repeated  it, 
slightly  prolonged,  with  a  slower  roll  of   the   head.  Two 


54 


MOOSE-CALLTNG. 


seconds  after,  with  the  trumpet's  mouth  close  to  the  ground, 
he  began  a  plaintive,  pleading  bellow  long  drawn  out,  while 
the  trumpet-mouth  described  three  wide  circles  in  the  air, 
ending  abruptly  without  accent.  If  no  answer  came,  a 
half-hour  passed  before  the  call  was  repeated. 

Though  his  call  was  often  successful,  I  confess  it  never 


Moose-Calling. 

sounded  to  me  much  like  that  of  a  moose.  Perhaps  had  I  been 
farther  away,  with  a  vivid  imagination  and  in  ignorance  of  the 
hunter's  wiles,  I,  too,  might  have  been  deceived.  The  answer 
of  the  bull  varies  but  little,  and  is  easy  to  imitate.  It  is  a 
short,  hoarse,  grunting  roar,  frightfully  ugly  when  close  at 
hand,  leaving  no  doubt  as  to  the  mood  he  is  in. 


t 


MOOSE-CALLING. 


55 


Sometimes,  when  a  bull  is  shy,  and  the  hunter  thinks  him 
to  be  near  and  listening,  he  follows  the  call  of  the  cow  by  the 
short  roar  of  the  bull,  at  the  same  time  snapping  the  sticks 
under  his  feet  and  thrashing  the  bushes  with  his  trumpet. 
Then,  if  the  bull  answers,  look  out.  Jealous  and  ready  to 
fight,  the  beast  hurls  himself  out  of  his  concealment,  and 
rushes  in  like  a  tempest  to  meet  his  rival. 

Once  aroused  in  this  way  he  heeds  no  danger  ;  and  the  eye 
must  be  clear  and  the  muscles  steady  to  stop  him  surely  ere  he 
reaches  the  thicket  where  the  hunter  is  concealed.  Moonlight 
is  poor  stuff  to  shoot  by  at  best,  and  an  enraged  bull  moose  is 
a  very  big  and  a  very  ugly  customer.  It  is  a  poor  thicket, 
therefore,  that  does  not  have  at  least  one  tree  with  conveniently 
low  branches. 

The  trumpet  with  which  the  calling  is  done  is  simply  a 
piece  of  birch-bark,  rolled  into  the  shape  of  a  cone,  with  the 
smooth  side  within.  It  is  fifteen  or  sixteen  inches  long,  about 
four  inches  in  diameter  at  the  larger  and  one  inch  at  the 
smaller  end.  The  right  hand  is  folded  round  the  small  end 
for  a  mouthpiece  ;  into  this  the  caller  grunts  and  roars  and 
bellows,  at  the  same  time  swinging  the  trumpet's  mouth  in 
sweeping  curves  to  imitate  the  peculiar  roll  of  the  cow's  call. 

If  the  bull  is  near  and  suspicious,  the  sound  is  deadened  by 
holding  the  mouth  of  the  trumpet  close  to  the  ground  ;  this,  to 
me,  imitates  the  real  sound  more  closely  than  any  other 
attempt.  So  man^^  conditions  must  be  met  for  successful 
calling,  and  so  waril}^  does  a  bull  approach,  that  unless  far 
back  from  civilization  the  chances  are  strongly  against  the 
hunter's  ever  seeing  his  game.  The  old  bulls  are  sh}^  from 
much  hunting  ;  the  younger  ones  fear  the  wrath  of  an  older 
rival. 

The  calling  season  begins  early  in  September  and  lasts  six 
or  seven  weeks.  In  this  season  a  perfectly  still  night  is  the 
first  requisite.  The  bull,  when  he  hears  the  call,  will  approach 
silently  within  an  hundred  yards.  It  is  simply  wonderful  how 
noiselessly  the  great  brute  can  move  through  the  thick  woods. 


56 


MOOSE-CALLING. 


Then  he  makes  a  wide  circuit  till  he  has  gone  completely 
round  the  spot  where  he  heard  the  call,  and  if  there  is  the 
slightest  breeze  he  scents  the  danger  and  is  off  on  the  instant. 

On  a  still  night  his  big,  trumpet-shaped  ears  are  marvel- 
lously acute,  and  only  absolute  silence  on  the  hunter's  part 
can  insure  success.  Another  condition  quite  as  essential  is 
moonlight.  The  moose  often  calls  just  before  dusk  and  before 
sunrise,  but  the  bull  is  more  wary  at  such  times  and  can 
seldom  be  called  into  the  open. 

By  far  the  best  place  for  calling,  if  one  is  in  a  moose 
country,  is  from  a  canoe  on  some  quiet  lake  or  river,  between 
two  open  shores  if  possible.  On  whichever  side  the  bull 
answers,  the  canoe  can  then  be  backed  silently  into  the  shadow 
of  the  opposite  bank. 

If  there  is  no  water  near  the  hunting-ground,  then  a  thicket 
in  the  midst  of  an  opening  in  the  forest  is  the  only  suitable 
spot  from  which  to  call.  Such  spots  are  rare  except  about  the 
barrens,  which  are  open,  treeless  plains  scattered  here  and 
there  throughout  the  great  northern  wilderness.  Here  the 
hunter  collects  a  thick,  dry  nest  at  sundown,  and  spreads 
the  warm  blanket  that  he  has  carried  on  his  back  all  the  weary 
way  from  camp  ;  without  it  the  cold  would  be  unendurable 
after  three  or  four  hours  of  silent  waiting. 

When  a  bull  answers  a  call  from  such  a  spot  he  will 
generally  circle  the  barren  just  within  the  edge  of  surrounding 
forest,  and  unless  enraged  by  jealousy  will  rarel}^  venture  into 
the  open.  He  is  a  creature  of  the  thick  woods  ;  never  at  ease 
unless  within  quick  reach  of  their  protection. 

An  exciting  incident  happened  to  Alek,  my  Indian  guide, 
one  autumn  while  hunting  on  one  of  these  barrens  with  a 
sportsman  whom  he  was  guiding.  He  was  calling  one  night 
from  a  thicket  near  the  middle  of  a  narrow  barren.  No  answer 
came,  though  for  an  hour  or  more  he  felt  quite  sure  that  a  bull 
was  near  and  listening.  He  was  about  to  try  the  roar  of  the 
bull,  when  the  creature  suddenly  burst  out  of  the  woods  behind 
the  two  men,  in  exactly  the  opposite  quarter  from  that  which 


MOOSK-C  ALINING. 


57 


they  were  watching,  and  in  which  they  believed  their  game  to 
be  hidden. 

Alek  started  to  creep  across  the  thicket,  but  on  the  instant 
a  second  challenge  rang  out  fiercely  in  front  of  them,  and 
directly  across  the  open  they  saw  the  underbrush  sway 
violently,  as  the  bull  they  had  long  suspected  broke  out  in  a 
towering  rage,  grunting  and  grinding  his  teeth,  and  thrashing 
the  bushes  with  his  big  antlers. 

He  was  slow  in  advancing,  however,  and  Alek  crept  rapidly 


A  Bull  Moose  and  Herd. 

to  the  Other  side  of  the  thicket,  where,  a  moment  later,  his 
excited  hiss  called  his  companion.  From  the  opposite  fringe 
of  forest  the  second  bull  had  hurled  himself  out,  and  was 
plunging  with  savage  roars  straight  toward  them. 

Crouching  low  among  the  firs,  they  awaited  his  headlong 
rush,  not  without  many  a  startled  glance  backward,  and  a  very 
uncomfortable  sense  of  being  trapped  and  frightened,  as  Alek 
confessed  to  me  in  confidence.  He  had  left  his  gun  in  camp  ; 
his  employer  had  insisted  upon  it  in  his  eagerness  to  kill  the 
moose  himself. 


58 


MOOvSE-CALLING. 


The  bull  had  come  rapidly  within  rifle-shot.  In  a  minute 
more  he  would  be  in  the  thicket,  and  already  the  rifle-sight 
was  trying  to  cover  a  vital  spot,  when  right  behind  them,  at 
the  thicket's  edge  it  seemed,  a  frightful  roar  and  a  furious 
pounding  of  hoofs  brought  them  to  their  feet  with  a  bound. 

A  second  later  the  rifle  was  lying  among  the  bushes,  and  a 
frightened  hunter  was  scratching  and  smashing  in  a  desperate 
hurry  up  among  the  branches  of  a  low  spruce,  as  if  only  the 
tip-top  were  half  high  enough.  Alek  was  nowhere  to  be  seen, 
unless  one  had  the  eyes  of  an  owl  to  find  him  down  among  the 
roots  of  a  big  windfall. 

But  the  first  moose  smashed  straight  through  the  thicket 
without  looking  up  or  down,  and  out  on  the  barren  a  tremen- 
dous struggle  began.  There  was  a  few  minutes'  confused 
uproar,  of  savage  grunts,  grinding  teeth,  pounding  hoofs  and 
clashing  antlers,  with  a  hoarse  undertone  of  labored  breathing. 
Then  the  excitement  of  the  fight  was  too  strong  to  be  resisted, 
and  a  dark  form  wriggled  out  from  among  the  roots,  to  look 
at  the  struggling  brutes  not  thirty  feet  away. 

Three  times  Alek  hissed  for  the  white  man  employer  to 
come  down,  but  that  gentleman  was  safe  astride  the  highest 
branch  that  would  bear  his  weight,  with  no  desire  evidently 
for  a  better  view  of  the  fight. 

Then  Alek  found  the  rifle  among  the  bushes,  and  waiting 
till  the  bulls  backed  away  for  one  of  their  furious  charges,  he 
brought  the  larger  one  to  his  knees  with  a  bullet  through  the 
shoulders.  The  second  stood  startled  an  instant,  with  raised 
head  and  n:tuscles  quivering,  then  dashed  away  across  the 
l)arren  and  into  the  forest. 

Such  encounters  are  often  numbered  among  the  tragedies 
of  the  great  wilderness.  In  tramping  through  the  forest  one 
sometimes  finds  two  sets  of  huge  antlers  locked  firmly  together, 
and  scattered  about  among  the  underbrush  white  bones  picked 
clean  by  wildcats  and  prowling  foxes.  It  needs  no  written 
record  to  tell  their  story. 

WlIvTJAM  J.  IvONG. 


Fox -Hunting  in  New  England. 


The  health-giving,  all-day  hunt  of  a  fox  on  his  native  hills, 
as  free  and  nearly  as  fleet  as  the  wind,  is  a  sport  which  is  still 
popular  in  some  parts  of  New  England,  and  one  which  is  in  a 
high  degree  calculated  to  develop  the  endurance,  wariness  and 
patience  which  go  to  make  a  true  sportsman.  Though  not 
every  day's  hunt  is  successful  in  the  securing  of  Reynard's 
brush,  there  is  rarely  a  day  when  one  cannot  be  started,  and 
keen  is  the  satisfaction  when  he  falls  to  the  tireless  trailing 
of  the  hounds,  and  the  patience,  good  judgment  and  accurate 
aim  of  the  hunter. 

Bach  sportsman  has  one  or  two  hounds  which  he  keeps  for 
an  occasional  hunt,  and  from  one  to  five  or  six  hounds  are 
ordinarily  used.  They  are  strong,  well-made  dogs  of  great 
courage  and  endurance,  read}^  and  willing  to  follow  a  started 
fox  from  twelve  to  thirty-six  hours,  unless  in  his  flight  he 
sooner  comes  within  reach  of  the  ambushed  gun.  They  are 
also  keen  of  scent  and  intelligent  enough  to  understand  the 
many  methods  used  by  the  fox  to  baffie  them  in  their  pursuit, 
and  to  throw  them  off  the  trail. 

In  order  that  the  dogs  may  work  well  together  they  should 
be  acquainted  and  run  close  instead  of  stringing  out.  They 
should  work  steadily  in  full  cry,  and  slowly,  as  a  fox,  if  too 
hard  pressed  by  fast  following  dogs,  will  go  straight  away 
across  country  instead  of  circling  within  range  of  the  hunter. 

While  foxes  are  quite  numerous,  they  are  seldom  seen 
unless  ahead  of  the  hounds.  It  is  their  habit  to  seek 
retirement  during  the  day  in  remote  swamps  and  deep  woods 
where  they  are  not  likely  to  be  disturbed,  and  to  emerge  after 
nightfall  to  roam  over  the  hills.  Their  lightness  and  strength 
of  limb  takes  them  many  miles  in  a  night. 

In  hunting  them  the  hounds  find  a  track  made  by  a  fox  in 
his  nocturnal   ramble,  and  following  it  carefully  in  all  its 


6o 


FOX-HUNTING  IN   NP:w  KNGI^AND. 


winduigs,  come  to  where  the  fox  has  stopped  for  the  day.  He 
is  soon  on  his  feet,  and  leading  the  dogs  on  what  may  be  a 
long  journey.  If  not  followed  too  fast  he  will  usually  run  in 
a  large  circle,  and  within  a  few  hours  swing  around  to  the 
region  from  which  he  was  started.  The  shrewd  and  experi- 
enced hunter,  knowing  the  runways  usually  taken  from  a 
certain  starting-point,  conceals  himself  within  range  of  one  of 
them,  and  waits  his  chance  for  a  shot. 

If  the  fox  comes  his  way,  and  if  the  hunter  does  not  miss 
him,  he  is  borne  home  in  triumph  and  exultation  over  the 


As  Fleet  as  the  Wind. 


capture  of  the  wariest,  cunningest  animal  that  ever  led  a 
hound.  If  the  sly  creature  takes  another  course  the  sportsman 
shoulders  his  gun  and  starts  for  home,  philosophically  hoping 
for  better  luck  next  time. 

lyCt  me  tell  you  about  a  hunt  I  had  recently.  One  day  in 
December  we  had  our  first  snow,  a  light,  feathery  fall  lasting 
during  the  day  till  sunset.  It  was  of  the  right  thickness  to 
ensure  perfect  following  the  next  morning,  for  snow  following 
is  the  best,  since  it  is  easier  for  the  dogs  to  keep  to  the  track, 
and  the  fox  can  be  distinguished  at  a  much  greater  distance 
upon  the  whitened  hills. 

In  the  evening  I  met  Sweet  and  Robbins,  two  veterans  in 
fox-hunting,  and  a  hunt  was  planned  for  the  next  day.  Later 


FOX-HUNTING  IN   NKW   KNG1.AND.  6l 

in  the  evening  Robbins  and  I,  with  our  two  hounds,  Buck  and 
Sport,  met  at  Sweet's  house,  where  we  were  to  pass  the  night 
in  order  to  be  in  readiness  for  an  early  start  and  a  long  day. 

The  next  morning,  after  fortifying  ourselves  against  cold 
and  fatigue  by  a  solid  breakfast,  and  after  feeding  the  dogs, 
who  were  in  a  state  of  great  excitement  and  crying  to  be  off, 
we  set  out  for  Tatnic  Hill,  about  a  mile  away,  at  about  sunrise 
on  as  beautiful  a  winter  morning  as  ever  dawned  ;  and  though 
it  was  cold,  our  brisk  walking  kept  us  from  feeling  it 
unpleasantly. 

On  reaching  the  hill  we  loosed  the  hounds,  and  they 
bounded  away  in  different  directions,  well  knowing  that  if 
they  separated  they  would  sooner  find  a  track.  We  walked 
around  aimlessly  in  order  to  keep  warm,  until  suddenly  from 
vsouth  of  us  came  floating  up  Buck's  clear  voice,  singing  the 
news  that  a  track  was  found.  In  a  very  few  moments  Sport 
and  Flirt  had  joined  him.  We  could  hear  their  voices  growing 
fainter  and  fainter  in  the  distance,  and  we  knew  that  they  were 
heading  south  away  from  us. 

After  a  little  we  could  hear  them  again,  showing  that  they 
had  changed  their  course,  and  were  bearing  east.  We  stood 
listening  intently,  till  Sweet  said  :  "  Lou,  that  fox  lies  in  the 
Scarborough  swamp.  He'll  go  north  through  the  woods  to 
Prince  Hill,  and  then  to  Long  Rock,  and  when  he  gets  there, 
I  shall  be  there  !  " 

Off  he  started  at  a  great  pace.  We  laughed,  and  followed 
him.  Sure  enough,  the  hounds  swung  around  to  the  Scar- 
borough swamp,  and  soon  after  entering  it  their  steady  cry 
broke  into  a  scream  as  the  fox  slipped  out  ahead  of  them  and 
headed  east  instead  of  north. 

Straight  away  east  went 'the  fox,  till  once  more  the  dogs 
were  out  of  hearing,  and  we  tramped  north  through  the  snow 
to  Barrett's  Ledges,  which  we  thought  he  would  pass  on  his 
return  from  the  river.  On  reaching  them  we  sat  down  and 
rested,  and  waited  further  developments.  We  did  not  know,  of 
course,  whether  the  fox  would  come  that  way,  or  would  take 


62 


KOX-HTTNTING   IN   NKW  KNGl.AND. 


some  other  route  and  destroy  our  chances  for  the  day,  for  it 
was  now  the  middle  of  the  afternoon. 

We  had  been  sitting  there  nearly  an  hour,  listening  with 
eager  ears,  when  far  in  the  distance  I  thought  I  could  faintly 
hear  the  voices  of  the  hounds.    There  was  a  breathless  pause, 


Waiting  for  a  Sliot. 


and  then  it  came  clearer  and  so  unmistakable  that  I  exclaimed, 
"  They're  coming,  boys,  run  for  places  !  " 

At  the  word  we  scattered.  Sweet  went  to  the  brow  of  the 
hill,  Robbins  concealed  himself  in  a  clump  of  white  birches 
near  an  old  barway,  and  I  stood  behind  some  trees  near  a  path 
that  ran  out  from  the  woods. 

As  I  stood  looking  through  a  small  field-glass  which  I 
carried,  and  while  the  hounds  were  yet  far  in  the  distance,  I  saw 
the  fox  come  from  the  valley  below  us  about  a  quarter  of  a 


FOX-HUNTING  IN   NBW  ENGLAND. 


mile  away,  and  springing  upon  a  large  rock,  stop  and  listen  for 
the  dogs  with  his  head  turned  and  one  foot  uplifted.  Satisfied 
that  they  were  still  hot  on  his  track,  he  dropped  from  the  rock 
and  started  on  again,  running  as  if  he  were  getting  tired,  as 
his  next  move  showed  him  to  be. 

In  a  number  of  years'  hunting  I  have  known  foxes  to  do 
many  clever  things  to  throw  off  the  dogs,  such  as  running  into 
the  midst  of  a  flock  of  sheep,  and  staying  there  to  let  the  sheep 
trample  out  the  sight  and  scent  of  their  tracks,  running  in  a 
shallow  brook  for  a  long  distance,  running  in  a  travelled  road, 
and  other  schemes  that  only  a  fox  would  think  of.  But  the 
cleverest  thing  I  ever  saw  done  was  done  by  that  fox. 

After  leaving  the  rock  he  went  to  an  old  stone  wall,  mounted 
it  and  proceeded  some  distance  on  the  top.  Then  stepping 
down  he  trotted  straight  out  across 


a  meadow  for  a  distance  of  about 
twenty  rods.  He  next  turned  around, 
retraced  his  steps  to  the  wall,  care- 
fully stepping  in  the  track  he  had 
made  going  out,  remounted  the  wall, 
crouched  for  a  spring,  and  bounded 
through  the  air  like  a  ball,  jumping 
in  the  opposite  direction  at  least 
twenty  feet,  and  coming  again  toward 


us. 

At  the  Wall. 

Nearer  and  nearer  came  the 
hounds,  clearer  and  clearer  came  the  music  of  their  voices. 
Buck's  bell-like  notes,  Flirt's  high  treble  and  Sport's  deep  bass 
making  the  hills  ring  again,  till  finally  they  burst  into  sight  in 
the  valley,  running  beautifully,  giving  tongue  constantly,  and 
after  following  hard  all  day,  still  running  so  close  that  you 
could  lay  a  blanket  over  the  three.  On  they  came  to  the  wall, 
and  to  the  place  where  Reynard  trotted  out  across  the  meadow. 
This  track  they  followed,  as  he  knew  they  would,  till  the^^ 
came  to  the  place  where  it  stopped  as  completely  and  suddenly 
as  though  the  fox  had  developed  wings  and  flown  away. 


64 


FOX-HUNTING  IN  NKW  ENGI.AND. 


Then  they  stopped  and  seemed  to  be  in  consultation,  for  it 
was  confusing  to  reach  the  end  of  a  fresh  fox-track  in  the 
middle  of  an  open  meadow. 

But  cunning  as  Reynard  was,  and  well  laid  as  was  his  plan, 
the  intelligence  and  experience  of  his  relentless  pursuers  were 
a  match  for  him.  After  a  few  moments  lost  in  vainly  looking 
for  a  continuation  of  the  track,  the  hounds  separated.  Buck 
and  Flirt  went  one  way  and  Sport  the  other,  in  large  circles, 
knowing  that  one  or  the  other  must  pick  up  the  track  again. 
Soon  Sport's  roar  announced  that  he  had  recovered  the 
trail,  and  in  a  moment  they  were  in  full  cry  again. 

It  was  not  long  before  I  saw  the  fox  bound  into  sight 
again  at  the  edge  of  the  woods,  and  after  standing  a  moment 
switching  his  tail  in  evident  annoyance,  he  started  down  the 
path  directly  to  me.  On  he  came,  while  my  heart  beat  so  that 
I  could  hear  it,  and  I  scarcely  breathed.  "A  few  more  rods,"  I 
thought,  "  and  I'll  try  him." 

Suddenly  he  stopped,  raised  his  head  suspiciously  and 
turned  abruptly  to  the  left,  and  ran  lightly  and  swiftly  to 
within  eight  rods  of  where  Robbins  lay.  I  watched  him 
eagerly,  and  was  wondering  whether  Robbins  could  have 
changed  his  position,  when  a  wreath  of  smoke  curled  out  of 
the  white  birches  and  floated  lazily  upward,  and  the  fox 
sprang  into  the  air  and  fell  back  motionless. 

We  hastened  to  him,  and  the  hounds,  their  ardor  increased 
by  hearing  the  report  of  the  gun,  soon  came  up  in  great 
excitement  and  threw  themselves  upon  the  fox  ;  but  life  was 
extinct,  and  they  soon  left  him,  and  lay  down  to  rest.  We 
were  then  quite  a  distance  from  the  village,  and  when 
we  reached  it  we  were  all  tired  and  hungry  ;  but  we  had  that 
fox's  skin,  had  had  a  grand  day's  hunt,  and  one  to  be  always 
pleasantly  remembered  and  talked  over. 

lyOUIS  B.  Cl^KVKLAND. 


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